


Our Chosen Paths

by Lhea, VoiceActress



Series: Seasons of Warfare [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Gen, Like actually strap in this is a long flight, M/M, Novelization, Romance, Slow Build, War, painfully slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2020-10-19 13:43:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 102,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20658200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhea/pseuds/Lhea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoiceActress/pseuds/VoiceActress
Summary: From the shadows, the goddess’s voice beckons.“How long do you intend to sleep?”Faced with the paths laid before them, her children stand against one another. One false step will lead them to war, to despair, to ruin. Friends meet one another on the battlefield, knowing that they may not survive.— A novel inspired by Crimson Flower —





	1. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth awakens from a brief bout with death. On her revival, she finds Garreg Mach in ruins and explores the grounds, haunted by her memories of the students she failed to protect five years prior, but she is not alone amongst the memories in these once cherished halls.

_ Day 25 of the Ethereal Moon, 1185 _

It’s dark. Dark enough that I'm not sure if I can see anything at all. My head aches. Aches like the morning after a far-too-long slumber. Aches like the morning after a night of heavy drinking. Aches like a chisel pounding into my temples. My fingers curl in the cold, clenching into fists to bear the pain.

"You…"

That voice. It sounds so familiar. A faint whisper echoing through the black, welcoming me back from hibernation.

"How long do you intend to sleep?"

My muscles relax at the sound of a young girl reaching out to me from the void.

"Your body is awake. Your eyes must open now, and you must find the strength to stand upon those legs of yours."

…Awake? Have I _ actually _ been asleep? It feels like it’s been so much longer than just one night.

“Where am I?” I whisper.

“You’re quite lucky to have found my favor,” the voice echoes back. “Any normal human would have been disintegrated by that blast.”

“…who are you?”

“Excuse me?! Are you saying you have forgotten who I am? How dare you! Now is _ not _the time for jokes. You already know the answer. Though I suppose you might take a bit of time to truly remember. I recall what that’s like.”

Like clockwork, memories of when I was last awake flood my psyche. An agonizing pain accompanies each of them. A clash of steel in a skirmish on the open plains. A charge against the great white serpent alongside my closest allies. A hunt against those who had schemed in the shadows for my father’s death.

"Like so much rain,” the voice continues, “a pool of blood has fallen to the ground… As spears and arrows pierce the earth, it weeps. And even now… it weeps. In order to survive, they kill. And so, the people of this world are lost in an abyss of suffering. They weep as well."

Speaking in riddles. I only know one who speaks like that.

"The only one who truly knows the nature of such things is I. …Or, rather, you."

Sothis.

"I'm still so sleepy…" I can't hear myself actually say the words, but a tired, croaking voice echoes in my mind.

A grumble rings in my ears. "You are a complete and utter fool! Have you not changed one bit?!"

My eyes flutter open in a haze. The black of an endless void is still there, peppered with tiny shimmers of green. The goddess floats above me, as if suspended like a puppet on its thread, her arms folded across her chest. Her irritated gaze cuts through my soul. …but how? She said that she would have to leave me. Or, rather, become me.

She… leans down, if you could call it that. I’m not sure which way is up in this place. Her face hovers mere inches away from my own. I stare back in a dazed confusion. How can I still see her, much less hear her?

A flick of her finger meets my forehead. Guess I can feel her too. I wince, and suddenly find the strength to reach for the sore spot on my forehead. "Alright, alright, I'm awake."

"Get on your feet," she snaps. "Right now! I'll coddle you no more!"

I cup my forehead in my hands, rubbing my eyes with the heel of each palm. “And just when have you ever had to coddle me?”

She rolls her eyes. "You are just like a child, always needing me to hold your hand. Humans are all the same. One simple blessing and they think themselves untouchable."

“Are you going to answer my question or not? Just where am I?” I rise up, slouching as I sit on my calves.

She snickers. “You never left, in truth. Merely in hiding, where we met. Though I suppose not truly _ met _. Rather, where we came to know each other.” A coy smile carves its way across her cheeks. She still knows just how to irritate me.

I try to piece it together on my own. A few cursory glances through the black yield no results. I shrug my shoulders. “Couldn’t you afford to play nice? Feels like I just woke up.”

Her playful demeanor turns foul. “What did I say about the jokes?!”

I crack a smile. She frowns in return and shakes her head.

“You’re hopeless. I’ll never understand what that child saw in you.”

That… child?

“Regardless. I am afraid that your time for sleep is over. Much has happened in the years that I have spent putting you back into one piece.”

My eyes widen. “Excuse me? Years? Putting me back into one piece? I swear, every answer just leads to more questions.”

She nods. “Patience, child. I am not one to tell you of all that has happened. Being locked away inside your soul does not bode well for keeping in sync with the outside world, you know. You must learn of that on your own. Suffice it to say that the world is in need of my - rather, _ your _ power to tip the scales toward balance.”

Another nod. “The monster you faced - the Immaculate One, my first child, must be freed from her insanity.”

A look of confusion engulfs my face. Naturally, Sothis reads me as easily as she would herself.

“The great white beast who attacked you. Surely you recall that much.”

A splitting pain bites at my forehead. A vision. A divine dragon’s gaping maw. Flames licking and blazing about decorative stone walls. A gust of wind from its wings blowing back my hair and cloak. Terrified Imperial soldiers and Church Knights fleeing her inevitable rampage. A brilliant flash of light forming in her maw, and the dragon’s final attack hurtling toward my feet. The floors of the monastery give way. And from there… nothing but a long fall to the end.

“Yes,” Sothis says. “Now you remember.”

The pain evaporates. I stare at my open palm. “I tried once before, and I couldn’t stand against her. I do remember that.”

“Fret not, my child.”

“How could I not?” My fingers curl into a fist. “All this power, and it still wasn’t enough.”

Sothis’s face creeps into my field of vision. The soft emerald in her eyes soothes away the lurking doubts. “You’ve made the same mistake twice now, you know.” Gee, thanks. “Once in the forest. Again at the monastery. Charging forward into battle alone without properly understanding your foe, and expecting to turn back the hands of time should things go wrong.”

“I thought I was strong enough!”

“And what good is a teacher who does not trust her students to aid her in a most desperate hour?”

I turn my gaze away.

“You pride yourself on this title you bore, on the trust that you were given to watch over those children. On the trust that I had in you to use my power to keep them safe. Now.” She extends her small hand toward me. “Will you accept it again? I cannot let my children be threatened in my name any longer.”

I reach for my hair and pull a handful aside: a deep blue color. I understand, and I nod. “Do I have any choice, if I’m to save my students? If any of them are even left.”

“You always have a choice.”

“You never could take a joke.”

Sothis scowls at me and rolls her eyes. “Why did she have to pick you, of all humans? Very well.” She shuts her eyes. A dim green light shimmers around the outline of her levitating body. The faintest hint of a smile curls into her lips. “I am glad that I had… one last chance to speak with you. I was afraid when we first merged that I would not have another.”

I nod and take a deep breath, shutting my eyes to mirror her own.

“What you choose to do with this power… is of course up to you.” I open my eyes again. Her form blends into the dark background. That faint light surrounding her intensifies, engulfing the black around me in a sea of gold and white. 

“Farewell.”

She vanishes. The lights dissipate into nothingness. A familiar surge of strength courses through my veins. It spreads around me, engulfing the surrounding darkness. I take a deep breath, and a step forward. Each pace illuminates the ground like the sun rising to conquer the night. 

As the brilliant light fades and the darkness subsides, familiar scenery folds into the foreground to replace them. Familiar, yet desolate. Where neatly manicured green patches and gleaming washed stone once lay, now brown blades of grass rustle in a cold wind blowing from the south. The gray sky above conveys a dreary mood. I take a few more steps forward, my gaze wandering across the surroundings. Ghastly figures roam about from happier times. I recognize some of their faces, but others bear no face at all.

The old marketplace is barren. Remnants of old merchant carts and stalls litter the grounds. I can hear the familiar tune that once played in the square as if the minstrels were still present. The stairway leading up into the welcome hall has lost much of its former luster. I walk up it slowly and make my way toward the stables.

There, a tall, well-dressed young man tends to a horse before mounting it. His strokes against the beast’s mane are soft and tender, and his bright orange hair rustles in the wind. His face is painted with uncertainty. I can hear his voice ringing in my ears. _ I cannot help but feel indignant. After all his hard work for the Empire, to be disgraced like this! I am conflicted, Professor. I do not know what to do. _He mounts the steed, and rides away, dissipating into the air as he passes by.

Another, a girl, mounts her own horse. A sash matching the color of her hair hangs from her waist. _ So, you’ve turned against the church to ally with the Empire, huh? _ Disdain colors her voice. She looks at me and sighs. Her eyes pierce my soul. _ I’m on your side, no matter what. I promised him I’d support you, and that’s what I plan to do. _She, too, vanishes.

A shorter, younger girl stands with her back to me, with her face seemingly buried in a book. A great power radiates from her aura. Her long white hair whips in the wind. _If the church is behind the current state of things, then I have no need of it._ _If she strays from her path, I trust you will set her straight again._ She turns to face me. Her pink eyes seem to watch me just as intently as that other girl. _Won’t you?_ _I am counting on you, Professor._

Two boys are on the nearby hill. One lays in the grass, looking toward the heavens. Another sits next to him with his knees clutched to his chest, his sun-splotched face showing worry. _ I can’t bring myself to trust the church _ , he says. _ Not after they killed Lonato and my brother. I need to know the truth. Even if it means turning my weapon on Faerghus. _

The other, his hair unkempt and messy, responds: _ We’ve both gone and done it now, huh? Wonder what my old man would say if he knew I’d sided with the Empire. _ His voice carries a deep, gravelly tone. _ I wonder how we’re going to die. My knees turn to jelly just thinking about it. _

And they, like the others, vanish.

Another young woman tours the monastery grounds. Her clothing is excessively modest, showing nary a hint of skin below her neck. The red in her tights and cloak contrasts against the glimmering silver of her hair, as if to passively draw her out of a crowd.

_ Let’s all agree to meet back at the monastery exactly five years from today. _

She turns her head and smiles at me. Her lavender eyes beam at me. What was her name…

_ You will come, won’t you? Whether or not you’re still teaching here… _

…Edelgard?

Another shot of pain as the memory returns. I stop briefly to shake it off.

A nearby pond lies still. Its waters appear muddy from the season. Still, I can barely make out a reflection. Emerald eyes, and mint-colored hair. It’s a view that I’ve grown to disgust in the time that I’ve been chosen to bear it. One that I can only associate with the Church, with its sins, with Rhea. I reach for my blade. The texture of its cracked, worn hilt feels oddly like home. The sword responds to my Crest with a warm glow radiating through my body.

I kick at the surface of the pond with my boot, marring my reflection. The sooner I can be rid of it, the better.

“…Professor?”

A voice? I turn my head in surprise, scowling as I unsheathe my weapon.

“No,” the voice says again. Her tone sinks, and a clattering of her blade to the ground breaks the silence lingering through the monastery. The color leaves her face, but her emerald eyes glisten. Chestnut hair falls to her waist. A crimson dress hugs her form tightly, adorned with silver ornaments and lavish burgundy lace befitting of an Imperial officer.

“Dorothea.” The name comes to me with no pain this time. I recall her face from my earlier visions, although she definitely shows signs of the passing years.

A tear crawls down her cheek. She steps closer, her pace wary and her hand outstretched. “I’m not dreaming am I? Please, tell me I’m not dreaming.” Her fingers reach for my face. The tips brush gently against my cheek. “Well, if this is some kind of trick she left behind, she did a damn good job.”

I wrap her wrist in my grip. “I’m real, I promise. Against my best efforts, I suppose.”

She giggles, clearing her throat to fight back a sob-induced crack in her voice. “Heavens, you look like you haven’t aged a day! Oh, I’m sure I look practically ancient to you now. I’m practically _ jealous _ of how good your complexion still looks. But where… where have you been?”

“Um…” What exactly am I supposed to say? ‘Dead?’ Would she even buy that? “Sleeping, if you can believe it.”

She nods, much to my surprise. Maybe I should have gone with dead. “I think I’m ready to believe anything. Oh, it’s been so long! My heart could sing with hope right now!”

“Wait, Dorothea. Why are you here?” And, more importantly, why did Sothis bring me here? It can’t just be a coincidence.

“Visiting from Enbarr. You know, Millenium Festival and all.”

The Millenium Festival? Sothis mentioned that it had been years, but that would mean that it’s been…. “You’re joking, right?”

Her eyes give a vacant stare. “You sure you didn’t fall and hit your head, Professor?”

I suppose whatever blank expression might be painted on my face raises enough alarm bells.

Dorothea looks to the side. “…Right. I guess you _ have _ been gone for almost five years, huh?”

Good to see that my estimate wasn’t too far off the mark. Cute date for Sothis to choose to bring me back to. “Are the other students here, too?” I ask.

“No, just myself and E-” She pauses. Her eyebrows fire up, alert. “Oh, of course, what am I even doing! I can’t just keep you all to myself.” She flips my grip around, claiming my wrist in her hand. “Come on. Edie is going to _ freak _when she sees you! It’s a bit of a walk to the Goddess Tower, but it’ll be worth the effort, I promise.”

“Wait,” I say as she pulls me along. “Edelgard is here!?”

Our stroll is indeed long, though Dorothea’s company admittedly makes it feel somehow shorter. I fired off a bounty of questions of what had happened since I vanished. The story she told proved depressing enough. It had really been almost five years since I “vanished” during the siege on Garreg Mach. Most of the students believed me to be dead. Even so, Edelgard’s reserve units from her uncle were enough to force a surrender and a retreat from the Knights of Seiros. And thus began the war that raged on while I slept.

No one had died, thankfully. But all of the students who we knew from the Academy had picked their sides. Dorothea claimed that many of them were no longer on speaking terms with one another. “Such is war,” she mused on it.

“Why didn’t the other students come back?” I asked in return. “You know, for the Millenium Festival.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a party, don’tcha think?” She hung her head at the thought. “Still, the Monastery means a lot to me, and to Edie, too. She and I would have felt… remiss about not honoring that promise.”

The rest of the journey is awkwardly silent. We come to a sudden stop. “Well,” Dorothea says. “Here we are.” She turns about-face on her heel, her back to me. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be out here standing guard. She’s at the top.”

My eyes widen a bit, and I nod. “You don’t want to come up, though? I feel like it would be terribly awkward for me to just… show up.”

“Oh, trust me.” She remains perfectly still. “It would be far more awkward for me to be there. Besides, I can handle myself.”

I shake my head and enter the tower. The spiral staircase proves familiar. Its stone steps show the same signs of wear as they ever did, though soiled with the fallen leaves of autumn. I count them on my ascent to the top. One hundred was the number I recall. I’m glad to see that my memory does not fail me here.

Finally, the summit. An empty room at the top, serving merely as a walkway to the outdoor balcony. Crawling ivies coil across the cracked stone walls of the chamber. A lone figure stands in the room, near that balcony. A long, crimson cloak flows behind her to her feet, adorned with a golden embroidery of the Adrestian double-headed eagle. Yet even as her frame was obscured, I could recognize those prized silver locks from miles away.

“Five years ago, to the day…,” she says to herself. Her voice is defiant. Firm. A hint of remorseful saccharine tints the color. “If things had continued on as they were, today would have been the Millenium Festival.”

A familiar warmth fills my chest. I take a few steps forward. The clack of my boots against the stone floor could not go unnoticed.

“Halt! Who’s there?” She reaches for the blade at her hip, drawing it at arms as she flips around. I hold up my hands in surrender.

The alert scowl on her face melts.

“It can’t be…,” she mutters. She takes a step forward. “Professor? Is it really you?”

I meet her stride, lowering my stance with a gentle nod. “In the flesh.”

She reaches for me just as Dorothea did. Edelgard’s gloved hands linger on my face longer than hers did, and they run along the shape of my cheekbones. Her amethyst gaze locks with mine, and hints of tears tug at the corners of her eyes. “But… but I searched everywhere and never found a trace.”

“Would you believe me if I said that I was dead?” I crack a snarky smile. “Or is hibernating more believable?”

Edelgard’s brow furrows, and her hand lands a clean swipe across my face. “How can you joke at a time like this?” Her voice cracks under duress, laden with an unexpected venom. “I swear! Do you have _ any _ idea how guilty I felt? How _ broken _ my heart was?!”

I right myself, admittedly a bit dazed from the slap. “I don’t really think I can say that I do. Five years passed like a moment to me.”

She balls her fists at her sides and stares at the floor. A few tears drop from her jaw. “I searched high and low after you vanished. Left not a single stone of this monastery unturned. And now you just… show up?! How can you be so frustrating?”

I frown. Though a rub to my cheek soothes the pain, one lingers in my gut. “Edelgard, you know I didn’t _ want _ to leave. It’s not like I just decided for things to work out this way.”

Edelgard shakes her head. “All this time, I led everyone as best as I could. I fought with all my heart. This burden has been so great, heavier than I imagined it would be. I’ve teetered on the brink for years after losing you.”

I reach forward for her shoulders. “Edelgard,” I whisper.

She does not protest. She turns her jaw up. The whites of her eyes match her cloak. “My teacher…,” she continues. “Do you remember what I told you before that battle so long ago? I’m sure it feels like a lifetime ago, but…”

It comes back in an instant, as if it were yesterday. I suppose, for me, it _ was _ yesterday. “Because of you,” I say softly, “I feel I can walk my fated path without losing myself.”

Her frame fits neatly against mine. Gentle sobs, muffled by my hair, barely permeate the stillness.

“But I’m not alone,” she continues for me. Her voice breaks like crumpled parchment. The tears flow freely now. “With you by my side, I’m free to be… simply Edelgard. …Welcome back, my teacher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much planning and initial drafting of the first few chapters, we finally feel ready to start publishing this. We hope you enjoy reading this as much as we're enjoying writing it.


	2. Rekindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth returns to Enbarr, and catches up with Edelgard and Dorothea on the state of the war and her former students. Edelgard seems hopeful that the end of the war might be in sight, now that Byleth's power is available to them again.
> 
> Though the Empire seeks to keep her revival a secret, Rhea senses her presence and implores the King of Faerghus to prepare for war.

_ Day 25 of the Ethereal Moon, 1185 _

_ Fhirdiad _

Lightning strikes outside the Royal Palace.

A cold rush of blood spreads through Rhea’s body. She stirs in her bed, tossing the sheets about. Her face, in contrast to the rest of her body, fills with a certain heat. Beads of sweat roll down her cheeks, the perspiration staining her gown. She murmurs with each turn of her body. “No, no, you will _ not _ be forgiven!”

In her mind, the conflict still rages. A flash of green emanates from her chest as the power of the Crest Stone of Seiros envelops her. The blaze of battle rages through Garreg Mach as her Knights and students are forced to retreat into the monastery for safety. Her body twists and turns, elongating in both directions. Her fangs gleam, her eyes burn with rage, and her tail flails against the ground with a crash. In her new form, she towers over the unbelievers, and her radiant white wings blot out the moonlit sky.

The chief heretic stares up at her like an ant before its god.

Rhea snarls and opens her maw. A great roar resonates through the halls of the monastery. Each flap of her wings blasts a gust of wind across the courtyard. Brilliant light emanates from her open maw in a growing mass of energy. The stone walls of her church begin to crumble in her immaculate presence. Fear-stricken Imperial soldiers retreat against their orders, and even the emperor herself stands paralyzed in awe.

They had escaped before from the Holy Tomb. They would not again.

Byleth grits her teeth and tightens her grip on her sword.

Rhea unleashes the charging blast.

Then, it ends. Darkness. Rhea’s eyes pop, and she sits upright in her bed. The pace of her breath quickens to a pant. Her gaze hunts for the demon who stood before her, but finds only the relative peace of a quiet room on a stormy night.

She reaches for her chest. Beneath her nightgown, the same green light from her dream flickers to life. The dull thumps of her heartbeat slow, but it still aches in a forgotten way; a pain that she had not felt for five years.

Even here, from across the continent, she senses the heretic’s presence. She grits her teeth and clenches a fistful of her bedsheets. “I had my doubts that you were truly gone,” she whispers; a lone tear crawls down her face. “I suppose I have been given another chance to take it back.”

Rhea releases the sheets from her grip and brings her hand in front of her face. She studies it in the light of another clap of thunder. “And on this day of all days!” Her lips curl into a smile, as do her fingers into a fist tight enough to draw a trickle of blood from her palm. “Thank you, Mother. I promise that I will not let you down this time.”

* * *

_ Day 26 of the Ethereal Moon, 1185 _

_ The Oghma Mountains _

Our carriage back to Enbarr is anything but glamorous.

When I ask about it, Edelgard responds, “We wanted to keep ourselves as inconspicuous as possible. No reason to alert any spies that Faerghus or the Alliance might have in the area to our presence. What if those spies turned out to be assassins? Or even just a small battalion marching through the area?”

“We didn’t exactly come prepared to fight, though ready to if it was necessary,” Dorothea continues for her. “Not that we were expecting to bring a plus-one back with us!”

We share a laugh together.

I notice Edelgard focusing her attention on me. “I must say, Professor, hearing your laughter again after so long… it’s like music.”

My cheeks flush red. She was, of course, always the assertive type, yet I can’t remember a time when she was ever so forward. I start to wonder what the years might have done to her. Is she even the same person that I spoke with so closely so long ago? Surely she still holds the same ideals, but she -- _ all _ of them, even -- would have had her own experiences without me. It feels as if I’m forced to start over with these bonds that I formed.

“Music?” Dorothea chimes. “Is that a request, Edie? A song to entertain us on our travels?”

Ignoring her, I ask, “Just how long is it to Enbarr?” I remember the trip that we took to Edelgard’s coronation all those years ago, but that was merely a day by pegasusback.

“On the ground,” Edelgard answers, “it’ll be about two days. We’ll have to stop in a tavern for the night if we can’t make it to Fort Merceus by nightfall.”

I scratch at my cheek with one finger. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of ‘being inconspicuous’?”

Dorothea interjects. She holds up one finger matter-of-factly. “That’s where I come in. They won’t suspect someone like me taking up a room or two. And if they do, well… a woman has her ways.”

We both glare at her with disdain.

“Listen,” she continues on the back foot. A bead of sweat rolls down her temple. “I did what I had to to survive, back in the day! Wasn’t always sunshine and roses before I started at the opera house.”

Edelgard sighs. “Do what you have to, I suppose. As long as we get back to Enbarr safely and unnoticed, I’ll accept the means.”

We pass through the mountains surrounding Garreg Mach into Varley territory unnoticed -- at least, as far as we can tell. The cragged terrain provided more than its fair share of bumps inside the carriage along the way, though the conductor’s repeated apologies for them were much more annoying. Having tread over the Oghma Mountains back and forth through Kingdom and Imperial territory as a mercenary all those years ago, I had gotten used to the discomfort of uneven roads. Thankfully, the journey through the mountains itself is short, and the flat plains of Adrestia welcome us.

“Edelgard,” I say flatly.

She turns, her eyes and brows alert. “Something wrong, Professor?”

I sit still with my hands curled into fists in my lap, knees held together but feet splayed outward, head hanging slightly. Curiosity is getting the better of me, and Dorothea’s explanations from yesterday were not the most thorough. “I’m surprised that you could make it all the way to Garreg Mach on a whim in the middle of a war. Shouldn’t you have been busy leading the Empire or something?” Not that I’m complaining about the present outcome.

She smiles. “I made a promise, and I fully intended to keep it. So did Dorothea. And, apparently, so did you.” She trails off her last words into a rather sing-song tone.

“What about the others? Weren’t they supposed to honor it, too?”

Her sigh hangs heavily in the air as she looks to the floor of the carriage. “I had to make… special arrangements to ensure that I kept it. And have a bit of luck, I suppose. The others were all terribly busy with their own affairs, and couldn’t make it.”

Now we’re getting into the meat of what I wanted to know. “And just what are they up to? I’m surprised that, of all people, Hubert wouldn’t be with you. And Petra? Caspar? Bernadetta? Linhardt? Ferdinand?”

A quiver flickers in her eyes at the last name. She swiftly brushes it aside. “Hubert is, of course, still one of my most trusted advisors alongside Dorothea. He’s also my chief intelligence officer, and he took Linhardt under his wing as a personal assistant. They’ve been instrumental in keeping the war as cold as it has been for the past few years, organizing spy deployments into both Faerghus and Leicester.”

I interrupt her. “Cold?” This is surprising. Edelgard was so headstrong about the war that I expected her to keep fighting it until a clear winner had been found. The concept of her letting a war go cold feels almost alien. What happened to that woman of her ideals, unwavering and steadfast?

Edelgard nods. “The nations have been at a standstill for the better part of three years. We tried to keep our momentum after taking Garreg Mach, but…” Her lips curl downward. “It was difficult without your leadership. Our last push was led by my uncle, Lord Arundel. Surely you remember him?”

How could I forget?

“He led a charge to Arianrhod,” she goes on, “and attempted to organize a coup alongside a prominent Kingdom noble, a mage who served the royal family. The siege went on for weeks. We funneled an untold number of men and supplies to the city. Ultimately, he was… unsuccessful. Most of the units under his command were wiped out, and his associate in charge of the coup was executed for her betrayal.”

She hangs her head again. Dorothea brushes against her shoulder. “Needless to say, it was a major setback for the war initiative. All those men lost, and we have had to spend a great deal of time to recover our losses. We can only be grateful that Faerghus lost as much as she did, otherwise we might have faced a counterattack or the territory we seized on the western border.”

“I’ve heard stories of Arianrhod,” I say. “The Silver Maiden, the impenetrable fortress city. I’m surprised that he was able to weaken Faerghus as much as he did from that position. I’m almost curious how he did it.”

Another heavy sigh. This one carries regret. “Arundel was so inclined to see his victory come to fruition that he decimated a significant portion of the city -- including both Faerghus and Adrestian troops -- with some unknown dark magick.”

“What kind of spell could do that?!” I raise my voice in shock, my brows standing at attention.

She shakes her head before continuing. “I do not know for sure. I can only tell you what Hubert told me. I suspect that the other nations have also decided against a counterattack out of fear. Fear that they might suffer what Arianrhod suffered.” She looks up at me. That quiver in her eyes from before returns. It begs me to trust her, to forgive her for what happened under her watch.

“If we’re to rekindle this war,” she continues, “then I want it to end swiftly. Minimal bloodshed.”

I nod. “I understand,” I say. “…what about the others?”

Dorothea takes the lead. “Bernie and Petra are both busy in Brigid. Edelgard sent them off that way around… two years ago? Something about wanting to gather reinforcements from the area, make use of the Brigid natives’ natural hunting skills to build back up the army. From what I’ve read in Petra’s letters, Bernie has grown up quite a lot! I’m excited to see them both again.

“As for Caspar?” she continues. “He’s still part of the Imperial war initiative.”

On cue, Edelgard interjects. “He’s my personal emissary to House Bergliez. And also the commanding officer for their land’s soldiers, the Brigadier of Bergliez.” She giggles to herself. “He was quite fond of the alliteration. I would have given the title to Randolph, but he was insistent that Caspar take the helm. Randolph is better served in the higher ranks, anyways.”

“I see.” But there’s still one they haven’t addressed. “You’ve been dodging the question. What about Ferdinand?”

Dorothea shuts her eyes, cinching them tightly enough to emphasize the wrinkles on the corners of her eyes and the center of her brow. “He’s not in Adrestia,” she says. Her voice sounds as if it could break.

“…not in Adrestia? I’m confused.”

“Yes,” Edelgard answers for her. “We don’t know where he is or what he’s up to these days. He deserted us after he learned of Arundel’s choices at Arianrhod. Said that he couldn’t bring himself to stand by and watch us defend a man so ruthless and uncaring for his men or his enemy. Called him a disgrace to the nobility, and… that was that.” 

Edelgard’s fingers curl into the fabric of her dress, drawing enough cloth into her grip to pull the hem up past her ankles. “He left a letter for us in his office announcing his resignation of the House Aegir title and his departure from Adrestia. We decided to leave him alone and let him process the war however he needs to.”

“Not that it matters,” Dorothea says. An unexpected venom drips from her words. “If the kid wants to leave everything he’s fought for alongside us, then let him. It’s not like we weren’t already planning to ship Arundel off into the mountains. Definitely not.”

She turns her head off to the side and folds her arms across her chest, tightening her posture and crossing her legs. With her lips pursed, she lets out a deep breath through her nose. 

“Dorothea,” Edelgard says, “he was as dear a friend to me as he was to you. Sure the rivalry he had with me proved… annoying at times, but it was part of his charm.”

“Can we find something else to talk about?” Another dose of venom. “_ Please. _”

Edelgard and I each fidget around, none of us wanting to look at one another for a while. The tension hangs thick in the air. My mind starts to wander through what happened to my students. Not just the Eagles, but also the Deer and the Lions. As close as I had been to them in age, it was easy to relate to them all. Thinking about them now, a few of the prominent ones jump to the forefront.

Dimitri, surely the King of Faerghus by now. As Sothis put it, a noble man clouded by an air of darkness. The wild, untamed look in his eyes at the Battle of Garreg Mach haunts me. The ease with which he tossed aside wave after wave of soldiers on the shaft of his lance, the strength he showed as his claws tore through armor and ripped apart the flesh beneath. I remember the sound of it well, of his screams when he saw Edelgard from across the courtyard. _ I will tear that head from your shoulders, and hang it from the gates of Enbarr! _ I never imagined what kind of ferocity he could show.

Claude, heir to House Riegan. Always the diplomat, seeking truth and peaceful solutions wherever he could, but still keen to play tricks to get his way. He never seemed to be the pious type. He fought alongside the church as well, I’m sure only out of a sense of duty to his friends. Even so, he managed to maintain some facade of neutrality. Does he still see himself as the outsider seeking truth?

Flayn. She did not follow us to Varley when we fled the monastery. Her playful, childish demeanor marred by how staunchly she defended the church. Even then, she refused to fight me, and I her. She fled the scene when faced with that conflict, disappearing to who knows where.

So many other faces pass through my memory. They all feel almost like my children with how much I fret about them.

“Professor?” Edelgard’s voice rings.

I lift my chin. At some point, I had shut my eyes, becoming truly lost in thought.

“Is everything alright?” she presses. “I know that it’s all a lot to take in at once. It’s not exactly fair to you for us to expect you to process five years of happenings in an afternoon.”

Shaking my head, I respond. “I’m fine, really. Just… I’ll need a while, yeah.”

“Understood,” she answers. “If you have any more questions, then I’ll do my best to answer. At least before we make it back to Enbarr. Once we return to the capital, I’m sure I’ll have more than enough affairs to keep myself busy. For now, do what you can to keep yourself hidden. I need to keep you secret.”

“Secret?” I wonder aloud.

She nods. “I believe that your return will be a turning point in this war. The end may finally be in sight."

* * *

_ Day 30 of the Ethereal Moon, 1185 _

_ Fhirdiad _

Dimitri reigns back his steed, the brilliantly white horse whinnying in protest as they ride through the gates of Fhirdiad. He preferred to travel alone where possible, insistent that he could handle himself in case of any attack on his life. His retainers had grown used to the idea over time and slowly accepted it. Faerghus, after all, had gone through a time of relative peace during the past three years, ever since the Imperial forces made their last push against Arianrhod.

He reaches forward to pat down the side of his mount’s head. “Easy, Patricia. We weren’t even gone for very long. You act like we’ve not been home for a year or more.”

He takes a secluded path between the inner and outer walls of the city, a neat and heavily-guarded shortcut to the Royal Palace. Little value in associating with the commoners these days, he reasoned. Too much fanfare and celebration over a man who did not deserve it.

The path winds and turns as it follows the outline of the city walls. After a journey around the perimeter, he comes to a rear entrance to the grounds which leads into the stables beneath the palace itself. Pulling his horse into her stable, he dismounts. His dark riding armor gleams in the gloomy winter sun of northern Fódlan. Reaching into the pouch on his side, he produces a small baked treat for his companion: a cake made from a variety of ground root vegetables. He offers it to Patricia, and she accepts it happily after a few sniffs. After another stroke across her ears, he bids her farewell.

He begins his walk toward the passageway from the stables to the Palace proper, pulling his long, golden hair back away from his eyes and tucking a few strands behind each ear. A day on the road each way to and from House Gautier’s estate left him feeling filthy. His mind wanders to the pleasantries of a hot shower that were no doubt awaiting him.

An unexpected figure awaits him at the door separating him from the Palace. A rather tall bear of a man, his red hair graying on each side of his head and cut close to his scalp. His gray robes bear the Crest of Seiros on a sash draped across his chest. “Welcome back, Your Majesty,” the man says. His voice is deep, gruff, suiting a man of his years.

“Ah, Gilbert,” Dimitri says, an uncharacteristic cheery tone to his voice. Despite the threat of war still looming overhead, a ride through his country could still bring out the brighter side of him. He pulls off his riding gloves, wiping his hands clean of any lingering sweat. “Fancying a ride out?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Gilbert replies. “I’m afraid that there has been… a development.”

“A development?” Dimitri pauses for a moment, raising his brow before going back to wiping the sweat from his palms and storing his gloves away.

Gilbert nods. “I’m not at liberty to say, even as private as these stables might be. Come.” He turns, beckoning the young king to follow him. “Lady Rhea awaits.”

Dimitri’s eyes widen, and he follows.

They ascend the staircases of the northeastern tower of the Palace flight by flight in silence. Dimitri wonders what sort of development would mandate Gilbert’s silence like this. The man had always been an… enigma, of sorts. But Dimitri trusted him, and had no reason not to. Gilbert had fought alongside them at the Battle of Garreg Mach, even sworn his own life to protect Dimitri’s should it come to that. He could remember that much, though the rest of that day was clouded by…

The madness. It always hung like a dark cloud over his memory of that day. Of that entire month since Rhea told the students to prepare for battle. He could remember only that announcement, and being summoned by Rhea to inform him of Edelgard’s betrayal, of her identity as the Flame Emperor, the one who had been terrorizing his fellow students. And he also learned of that professor’s betrayal. The newest one, Byleth.

_ She has stolen the power of the goddess for herself, and will lead an attack on this sacred ground. She is nothing less than an apostate! She must be destroyed, and so must that wicked girl, Edelgard! When they come, do not let them leave this monastery alive. But leave the professor for myself. Do you understand, my child? _

Dimitri clenches his head. The vision fades back into his memory.

Byleth had fallen, but Edelgard had slipped away from him that day. They had yet to see each other since. _ But _ , he thinks to himself, _ when I see her again, I _ ** _will_ ** _ fulfill that promise. When next we meet, she will breathe her last. _

The darkness starts to creep back into his mind. He beats it back as best as he can.

“Your Majesty,” Gilbert says. His voice brings Dimitri back into reality. “Lady Rhea’s chambers.” He opens the door for his king with a bow.

The royal guest chamber houses a single mattress in the center of the room, covered by a canopy and turned to face the eastern window as per Lady Rhea’s request. It is large enough for two, but only welcomed one into its sweet embrace as of late. The windows on the northern, eastern, and southern sides each span the entire height of their walls, made from crystalline glass and kept immaculately clean by a tireless squadron of handmaidens. Bright blue upholstery decorates the floor with a great griffin embroidered into the surface with golden threads. Most of the room is empty, short of the few necessary pieces of furniture to construe a homely feel.

Rhea stands alone facing the northern window, clad in a flowing white gown suiting a woman of her stature, though far less extravagant than her traditional Archbishop attire. She holds her hands together, palm in palm, beneath her breast. As the door opens, she turns about. “King Dimitri. It is good to see you, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri offers a courtesy bow. “And you as well, Lady Rhea. I trust the handmaidens have treated you well?”

The warmth of her smile betrays the seething rage in her heart. “Of course, my child. I am glad that Sir Gilbert found you as soon as you arrived. I tried to issue a formal summons for you back to the capital, but he and General Dedue both assured me that it would not hasten your arrival.”

“I can only ask your forgiveness that I was not here in your time of need,” he replies. “Sir Gilbert mentioned a development. One that could not be shared where any prying ears might hear.”

Shutting her eyes, she winces. Her lower lip quivers as they both curl into a frown. “Yes. Sir Gilbert, you are certain that we are the only ones in this room?”

Gilbert only nods.

“Very well. Your Majesty, I have been granted… a vision from the goddess. One deeply troubling. On the eve of the Millenium, she came to me in a dream of the Battle of Garreg Mach almost five years ago. Do you remember that battle, my child?”

Dimitri grits his teeth. “Yes. There is… a dark haze over it, but I remember it well enough.”

“My vision was particularly detailed. In it, I recalled the final stand against the Fell One, when I resorted to my Immaculate form to cleanse her from the earth. On that day, though we lost the monastery, I recall great celebration at her demise. I am afraid that that celebration may have been… premature.”

Dimitri’s muscles relax. He releases his fists. His eyes tighten. His mouth hangs slightly open. “That’s…,” he mutters. “That’s not possible. I saw the blast. And even after the Empire left, we searched everywhere for her body! None could find her!”

Rhea hangs her head. “I would not tell you these things were they not true, Your Majesty.”

“How do you know this?”

“She and I share a… special connection. I cannot tell you how, but when she awoke, I could sense her life force.”

His body tightens again, and his brow furrows as he regains his composure. “Where is she?” His tone is flat, focused, and terse. In his mind, his intention is clear: he must finish where Rhea failed.

“I am afraid… that the wicked girl has found her first.”

As quickly as it returned, the resolve melts away from his body. He hangs his head, solemn. The memories rush before his eyes again. The times that they spent together in the monastery. The mock battles. The training regimens. The shared meals and feasts. Even how some of his own men had fought alongside her in her assigned monthly missions.

He approaches the window, standing next to Rhea. “Where is she now?” His voice is low and quiet. “Do you know?”

Rhea shakes her head. “I cannot know where she is. Only _ that _ she is.”

His cup runs over, and the rage consumes him. He envisions the motion in his mind’s eye. One arm back, and a quick jab forward, just enough to vent it out of his system for the time being. His body follows before he can even reason his way out of it.

The window shatters. Shards of broken glass fall to the floor of the guest chamber. He pulls his fist back. Blood streams from his knuckles and joins the glass below. _After five years…,_ he wonders,_ why now?_ _And how?_ Byleth had been as good as dead. Her return presents him with a wild card in the war that he had not anticipated. A woman of her strength and prowess in battle would prove a formidable foe indeed. If Edelgard had already claimed her, then only one path lay ahead of them.

“Gilbert,” he says. The calm briefly returns to his voice.

The knight stands at attention. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Begin amassing our troops," he commands. "We’ll need weeks, maybe even a month to prepare enough men and supplies.”

“I shall also prepare a messenger to Derdriu,” Gilbert offers. “I beg your leave, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri winces his eyes shut. Warning the Alliance of any coming danger would be too noble. The only man from Leicester that he needed alive was the head of House Riegan. The rest could burn for all he cared, so long as he himself had the honor of beheading Edelgard. He would not take any chances on letting someone else have that opportunity. And should the Empire attack Leicester first, he could gain another valuable ally.

“No,” Rhea snarls. “Until the traitor shows herself, you are to honor my wishes and keep her existence to this very room, among the three of us. I must be the one to claim her heart. No one else. Do you understand?”

Gilbert’s face freezes. “But… Lady Rhea, the Alliance deserves to know! They will need time to adequately prepare and--”

“Sir Gilbert!” she barks. “I did not ask for your opinion! You will honor my wishes. Even if the Alliance must bleed, I will be the one to take the traitor’s heart. I cannot do that while she is holed up in Enbarr with that rat who calls herself Emperor!”

“U-Understood, Lady Rhea.”

Dimitri’s lips curl into a sinister, almost bloodthirsty smile. Perhaps the two of them were more alike than he realized. What a curious alliance he had joined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ferdinand, cast to the wayside and abandoning his homeland in pursuit of his own ideals. Don't worry, though. He'll be around.
> 
> Also, a much more sinister Dimitri than we are used to in Crimson Flower. Trying to make him feel more like he does in Blue Lions/Golden Deer at this point, the troubled man who's managed to suppress it for most of the war due to the standstill, but always on the brink of losing his mind again.
> 
> Claude sure won't like it if/when he finds out that Dimitri is trying to use him to soften up Edelgard, nor that Rhea is using him to bring Byleth to her.


	3. Class Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard convenes a summit in Enbarr to reignite the war from its cold state. The heads of the Imperial war effort decide that their first objective should be capturing the Alliance and eliminating them before pushing forward to Faerghus. Afterwards, Byleth takes the chance to reconnect with her former students who are present in Enbarr while she still has the chance -- and learns of some troubling truths in the process.

_ Day 1 of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _

_ Enbarr _

Edelgard was quick to convene a summit on our return to Enbarr, myself included. She was adamant from the moment we arrived that I would need to lie exceptionally low for the next few days.

_ “I don’t like making you feel like a prisoner, believe me. But we can’t take any risks. What if a Kingdom spy were in our midst and saw you?” _

There was, of course, much I wanted to catch up on, but her restrictions didn’t allow for it. Not even a chance to talk with old friends in the palace could be afforded, so I had to make do with Dorothea’s company. She would fetch books from the library for me for my own solitary entertainment and brought me trays of my favorite sweets and tea. The few days between our arrival and the date of the summit passed by quickly. On the eve of the summit, Dorothea managed to sneak me out of the palace unnoticed to the opera house for a show, which did wonders for my cabin fever.

But the day of the summit is upon us, and I’m  _ finally  _ free to walk the palace.

The halls of the Imperial palace prove to be as busy on a day like this as I would have imagined. Innumerable guards, handmaidens, and emissaries from the various noble houses wander about on their own business.

Turning a corner, I bump into someone. My forehead strikes the bone of their chin, stirring a flurry of stars in my head. I reel back in a daze, holding onto the wall for support. “Damn,” a man’s voice says as I try to soothe the point of impact. “Sorry about that mi-… Professor?”

The smooth texture of that voice runs through my ears like butter, and the softness of tone sounds so familiar. Wait… why would  _ he  _ be here?

I find the strength to open my eyes as the dizziness fades. They confirm my suspicion. Sylvain stands close to me, one hand resting on his hip and the other reaching for my shoulder. His hair lays longer than it did when I last saw him, though much more cleanly kept. Adorned in a dark gray, lightly-plated suit of armor with fur accents around his collar, I could say he appears almost knightly -- a term I definitely would not have ever imagined using for him. I shake my head and stand upright, brushing his shoulder aside with a groan. “What in the heavens’ name are you doing in Enbarr?” I ask.

“Well, guess you’re happy to see me. I could just as well ask you the same thing. Luckily for you, the little songbird already filled me in earlier this morning, so I guess this isn’t  _ too  _ much of a surprise. Still, gotta say your lovely face is a welcome sight.”

…I suppose he hasn’t changed at all. “Songbird?”

“Dorothea,” he says. “It’s a playful nickname I gave her. But that’s not the point. You look lost, assuming you’re on your way to the council meeting, at least. Come on, I’ll walk you there.” He offers his arm, bent at the elbow and with his hand inches away from his hips.

I scoff and roll my eyes before strutting past him. “Thanks, but I’m more than capable of finding it myself.”

“Then why are you headed in the  _ opposite _ direction?”

I freeze in place mid-stride. Dammit all.

“You know,” Sylvain says with a snarky chuckle in his voice. A clank of plate rings in the busy hall from behind me. “I get that you’re the teacher and all, but you can at least have a  _ little _ faith in me. I’ve been around this block before. Now.” His hand reaches for my arm and coils it in his. “You gonna trust me or not? I gotta be there, too.”

I yank my arm away. “Fine, but you can drop the chivalry.”

He snickers. “Alright, alright, have it your way, Teach.”

I follow closely behind him. Thankfully, his height and brightly-colored hair make him easy to pick out of the densely-populated hallways. His presence seems to cut a path for us as he pushes people out of the way. Some of them even acknowledge him by name -- most of them women, admittedly, but a handful of armored men, as well.

Once we make it into a quieter area, I take the opportunity to talk with him. “Sylvain? You didn’t answer my question earlier.”

He looks at me inquisitively. “Question? Oh, right. How rude of me.” Throwing his arms behind his head, he turns his gaze forward. “Suffice to say that Her Majesty has a certain way of… resonating with people like me. Feels like she wants something greater, like she wants to really abolish this tired concept of breeding nobles for their Crests.”

“You were willing to fight with us at Garreg Mach,” I remark, “but this is a lot more than you signed up for, isn’t it?”

A soft, short chuckle. “You’re right about that. And I could say the same thing to you. Really, I’m just here to fight against the Church. I can’t bring myself to trust them after what happened with Miklan, and what almost happened with my family’s lance. Having to fight against Faerghus is just an…” He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath with pursed lips. “We’ll call it an unfortunate circumstance.”

“Faerghus has allied with the Church?” Edelgard failed to mention that.

He nods, and the expression on his face relaxes. He must be thankful that I kept the conversation moving. “Rumor has it that Lady Rhea herself has taken refuge in Fhirdiad. That’s just what the rank-and-file say, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Dimitri always was the ‘enemy of my enemy’ type.” He stops in place. “Anyway, that’s all I can really say for now. We’ll have to catch up later.”

I cock my head to one side. “Why’s that?”

“Because we’re here.” He cuts across in front of me. …when did that door get there?

“…oh.”

Sylvain opens the door and gestures into the chamber. “After you, Professor.”

The chamber behind the doorway basks in natural light from a row of stained windows along its eastern wall. Each window bears a memorial to pivotal moments in Imperial history. Some of them I can recognize from my spare readings in Garreg Mach’s library: the coronation of Wilhelm I by Saint Seiros, the battle against Nemesis at the Tailtean Plains, the occupation of Brigid, among others. A red banner embroidered with the golden double-headed eagle hangs between each of the pieces. Great stone pillars hoist the vaulted ceiling overhead. A roundtable carved from ebony sits in the center, although it feels rather small among the grand scale of the rest of the room. The chamber itself seems better designed for a longtable to my untrained eye.

A handful of familiar faces are already seated. Dorothea shoots me a wink and a wave from her place at the table. A man with long, mossy hair and sleepy green eyes sits to her left, bearing a bishop’s gown dyed to match his eyes; he raises his attention from a collection of documents to smile at me, though he seems strangely unsurprised. Directly across the table sits a woman with light-brown hair tied into a bun and shimmering pink eyes. Her name escapes me, though she does feel familiar.

A man with raven locks and an equally dark scholar’s garb rises from his chair. His cheekbones cut deep and high into his face, and the beady golden eyes seem ever watchful. “Well now,” he says. “That face is certainly familiar. The lady of the hour.” His voice is cold with a notable hiss, like a rattlesnake coiled in the grass. Hubert approaches me with a sinister smile carved into his narrow features, offering a gloved hand in welcome. “I am glad to see you alive and well, Professor.”

I take his hand with a nervous shake. The man never did settle right with me.

“Thank you for escorting her, General,” he says past me.

…General? “Pure luck that I bumped into her, I’m afraid,” Sylvain says with a shrug. “Good thing I did, too. Poor gal was like a lost kitten in this maze of a palace.”

“Gentlemen.” Edelgard’s voice booms through the chamber from the far side of the table. She’s shed the royal cloak that she wore when we reunited in the tower, bearing only the crimson dress. “As elated as I’m sure you are to have a reunion with our dear friend, we have business at hand.”

Hubert turns and bows before her. “Apologies, Your Majesty.” He returns to his seat, and Sylvain follows to an empty chair near him -- although not before turning to shoot me a trademark wink.

“General. And Professor.” Edelgard gestures toward an empty chair to her right. “Please, have a seat.”

A tinge of doubt colors my face, but I suppose that I would be remiss to deny her request. Why does everyone seem so intent on using that dusty old title? It’s not like the Academy is still intact. I shirk the thought and make my way around the table to claim my seat.

“Now that we are all present,” Edelgard remarks, “we can call this council to order. Hubert, Linhardt. Would you mind?”

Hubert glares at Linhardt for a moment before clearing his throat. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he says. “As we discussed in private, Professor Eisner’s return to our ranks is to mark a turning point in this cold war. It is time for Adrestia to spur herself from slumber into action. Best yet, we already have our target.”

Linhardt flips through the pile of documents laid in front of him before continuing. “According to our intelligence reports,” he begins, stifling a yawn, “from our spy network in Derdriu, a considerable amount of infighting has been borne among the Great Lords of the roundtable. Houses Riegan, Goneril, and Edmund all are firm in their opposition to the Empire. House Gloucester seems… unconvinced on the state of the Alliance, firmly neutral in their stance and joined by House Ordelia. In fact, much of this information comes from our emissary in Ordelia.”

Edelgard smiles, resting her head on her hands. “I see that Lysithea has been hard at work, then.”

Linhardt nods. It fails to match the half-lidded, vacant expression in his eyes. “Indeed, Your Majesty. She has persuaded much of her family to our cause, being their sole living heir. However, House Ordelia is… let’s say, hesitant to offer their  _ full  _ support and declare allegiance to the Empire. Doing so would no doubt put them at risk of war with their fellow lords. But, they do appear willing to provide troops and refuge should we manage to establish a physical presence within Leicester.”

“With that in mind,” says Hubert as he produces a scroll. Unrolling it, he lays it on the table, securing each corner with a small paperweight, exposing a map of Fódlan rife in annotations. “I propose that we drive a force into the Alliance through the Great Bridge of Myrddin. It will be a bottleneck, but securing it will allow us a pathway by which to funnel troops and supplies past the Airmid River. A victory would be sufficient to finally join House Ordelia into our ranks. From there, we can march toward Derdriu. Crushing the Riegan Dukedom will be our swiftest path to victory on the Leicester front. Once the Alliance falls, we will be able to focus all of our efforts on Faerghus and the path to Lady Rhea.”

Sylvain chimes in. “You’re in luck, I’ve had a scouting party in Airmid for about a week now. Their first report just came in. They seem to think the place is less fortified than I’d expect. A few middling squadrons of the typical Alliance soldiers. Lots of cavalry units. Couple bands of mercenaries to help round out the defenses.” He pauses. “But, of note, the bridge flies the banner of House Daphnel.”

Edelgard’s eyes widen. “So, Judith has her post there. It makes sense. The Alliance knows that the bridge is the only feasible passage from the Empire across the river. Ladislava?” She turns her head to the woman who I did not recognize. “Do you have any inputs?”

The woman nods. “I only worry about how effectively we’ll be able to take the stronghold. Even if she is lightly-guarded -- which I doubt -- Judith is not one to underestimate. With sufficient force, we should be able to overwhelm her, but I do not wish to detract from any further efforts.”

“Understood,” Edelgard says. “And agreed. I’d like for you, Sylvain, and Dorothea to begin amassing your units. Ready what men you can. If we can help it…” She turns to look at me. “We must strike while we still have our secret weapon.”

“Ah, yes,” Ladislava coos in my direction. “I remember seeing her in action at Garreg Mach all those years ago. An impressive display, to say the least. I do hope your strength does not disappoint.” Her attention returns to Edelgard. “Your Majesty, let’s not play risky with an outing like this. We only have one chance to make an impression on House Ordelia. A devastating enough loss -- even a disappointing victory -- could undermine an Alliance front for years.”

Edelgard nods in agreement. “Linhardt, I want you and Hubert to arrange a supply caravan for our march. After we conquer Myrddin, we’ll move to Ordelia and formally establish our alliance. And I am sure our emissary will be pleased to see us.”

The council continues without me. I tune out most of their conversation until nothing but a droning din of discussion rings in my ears. It’s strange to think how much my students -- my  _ children _ , even -- have grown. In many ways, they’ve surpassed their old teacher. They each carry their own strengths and play to one another in such curious ways. This warmth in my chest… I think Dad called it happiness?

“Professor?” The Emperor’s voice cuts through the haze. “Is something wrong?”

I shake my head. “Just a little uncertain as to what I’m supposed to be contributing here. I never was much for war strategy.”

She offers a blank stare, followed by a few blinks. “I’m certainly not expecting you to be back in proper form or directing the entirety of this army after a week. Not by any means.”

“I’d hope not,” I say. “Maybe I’m best suited just lending my strength on the battlefield.”

Ladislava folds her arms across her breast. “The mere presence of that sword of yours should be more than enough for now. Regardless, I’m sure Her Majesty would prefer to keep you close to her in battle.”

I look back over to Edelgard. She offers a soft nod and a warm smile. “If you would have it, I would offer you the title of Captain of the Imperial Guard for this expedition. I’m sure ‘Professor’ must not ring very true for you anymore.”

Captain, huh? I’m not so sure how apt I am at picking up an officer’s title so quickly, but… it somehow feels right. I feel compelled to return the earlier gesture. “I’d be honored,” I say, unsure of whether I should be using an honorific for her in such a setting.

Edelgard continues, “Very well. If there are no further motions regarding our proposed venture to Myrddin, then I believe we may call this council to a close. Hubert, Linhardt, do either of you have any further information to present before we set off to prepare?”

“None, Your Majesty,” Hubert responds. Linhardt merely shakes his head.

“Very well. Consider this council adjourned, then.”

The men stand from their chairs and bow, seemingly eager to leave and return to their tasks. Linhardt and Hubert mutter between themselves, presumably some sort of intelligence babble of no interest to me. Sylvain shoots me a final wink as he stands; I anticipate a dinner invitation will be slipped under the door to my quarters in the future. Ladislava is not far behind the men, excusing herself.

Dorothea stands and stretches rather unceremoniously, twisting her back with a pop in each direction. “War councils always leave me feeling stuffy and out of place,” she says. “If I knew this is what I had signed up for when I enrolled at the Officers’ Academy? I would have had second thoughts.”

Edelgard lets out a quiet chuckle. “You’ll have to forgive me one day for taking you on as a personal advisor, then.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. As long as I come out of this alive? Anything for you, Edie.”

Strange, even Linhardt called her by title. “Edelgard,” I say.

“Profe- my apologies,  _ Captain _ ,” she states. New title already, huh? “I’m sorry to have dragged you into the fight again so soon after our reunion. I’m sure you have much you want to see and do before getting involved in a war again, but…”

I raise a hand, interrupting her. She stops abruptly. “You want to press your advantage while I’m still a well-kept secret,” I say. “If you think this is the best path forward, then I’ll trust you. And I’ll fight.” I fold my arms across my chest. “I could be a little rusty, though… far from in the same shape I was back then. Five years does a lot to wear down the muscles.”

Dorothea chimes in, “I’m sure you’ll be back in fighting shape in no time. It’s gotta come naturally to you, right?”

“You could say that. Still, if there are any training partners who you think might be up for a spar or two to get the juices flowing again…”

The two of them look at each other with a smile, then back at me. They respond in unison: “Caspar.”

I can feel a cold bead of sweat roll down the back of my neck. “Truth be told, I was wondering where he was. Seems like an important meeting for him.”

“We have plans for him, of course,” Edelgard says, beckoning for me to follow her. We walk as three toward the exit of the chambers. “He’s been busy with affairs inside House Bergliez, so he couldn’t attend. But he should be in Enbarr by the week’s end to arrange for his unit’s own supplies and reinforcements. You should also consider paying a visit to the palace’s library to study the layout of Myrddin. I’m sure we’ll have need of your tactical talents.”

As we leave the council chamber, a cold voice comes from the side wall as we exit. “Miss Eisner.”

I turn to face him. “…Hubert?”

He leans against the wall, propped against it patiently. “Would you allow me a moment of your time? In private.”

I look back at Edelgard and Dorothea with worried eyes. The latter responds, “I promise Hubie doesn’t bite.”

I nod. The other two women depart on their own. I turn my focus to Hubert. “Is something wrong?”

He offers a genuine smile -- a strange gesture, coming from him. “Come. Let us take a stroll. The gardens are a personal favorite of mine for conversations like this.”

Hubert takes his leave, cape billowing behind him, not waiting for me to follow. Nevertheless, I chase after him. No words are spoken on our walk through the palace halls. I am almost certain that the two of us together like this must turn a head or two along the way.

We make our way to one of the private gardens atop a tower of the palace. Its entrance is sealed by a visible hex on the gate, likely tied to a spell signature. Hubert is able to break the hex momentarily and escorts me into the garden. The green space creates a lovely contrast against the pale stone of the tower’s construction, accentuated by a variety of blues, reds, and violets among the blooming flowers.

“I am sure that,” Hubert says as he walks past me into the depths of the gardens, “given our past conversations -- though I am not sure how well you might remember them -- me asking to meet you atop a tower alone would seem… suspicious, in a word.” He takes a seat on a stone bench nestled on one side of the paved walkway.

A faint memory of those conversations comes back. “I recall, yes.”

He chuckles. “Well, then you will just have to trust me when I assure you that I have no intention of disposing of you. Her Majesty sees you as far too valuable an asset. And I do, as well.”

I sit on the matching bench across from him. “Hubert, what did you  _ really _ want to talk about?”

“Yes, yes,” he continues. “A fair warning: what I am about to say cannot and must not be repeated. I suggest you listen well.”

I nod.

He averts his gaze, focusing on the drifting clouds overhead. “It concerns Lady Edelgard’s uncle: the former regent of the Empire, Lord Arundel. Although he is currently cooperating with Her Majesty, he maintains his own… sizable military troops. His troops are not our own, nor do we have direct control over them. This was his request in exchange for lending us his aid.” His golden eyes turn back toward me. “It seems to me that his plans differ from our own.”

I recall the name from the caravan ride back to Enbarr from the monastery. “Edelgard talked about him before. She said that he led an attack on Arianrhod about three years ago.”

Hubert smiles. “So, you are already aware of some of his actions. Good. I assume you also recall a certain group’s scheming from five years ago? Solon and Kronya.” The grin fades from his lips. “They both served Lord Arundel.”

My eyes widen. “How do you know this?”

“I am Her Majesty’s eyes and ears. She did not entrust me with the intelligence of her war effort for naught. My research has led me to… interesting places.”

I ball a hand into a fist. I suppose my business with those white-skinned men is not yet finished. “If you’re absolutely certain,” I interject, rising to my feet, “then he  _ must _ be dealt with!”

“Professor.” Hubert holds up a hand. “Lower your voice. I understand how you feel.”

I sneer and grit my teeth before taking back my seat on the bench.

“I know, what they did to your father," Hubert continues. "And I know that it must be foul to even  _ consider _ cooperating with their kind. However, their power is essential for us at present. Our enemy is the Church of Seiros itself. It could not -- and cannot -- be toppled with the Empire’s might alone. Those working under Lord Arundel are extremely hostile toward the church, and the enemy of our enemy is…”

“Our friend,” I say with a frown. “You’re sure that there’s no other way? You’ve seen them in action. They act with no remorse, killing even their own kind like they did in the Sealed Forest.”

“Yes. I am well aware. And believe me, I would prefer that this not be the case, but until all of Fódlan is united, I am afraid that this is a necessary evil. I suspect that if we do not use their strength, then they will use it against us. After the war is over and the Empire victorious, we  _ will _ eliminate them.”

I look away, dejected.

Hubert reaches across the small walkway separating us. His hand lingers on my leg, and his eyes feel as though they peer through my soul. “Captain, Her Majesty has told you what they did to her, didn’t she?”

The nightmares. I remember when she told me about them. The experiments they ran on her siblings, leaving them to die in pursuit of  _ her _ creation. I nod. “Yes. She did.”

“Then you understand that she sees them as vile creatures who must be burned from out of their rats’ nest. But we cannot do that without a unified Fódlan. And we cannot achieve  _ that _ without you. I will do all that I can to ensure that her suffering in her pursuit of her goals is not in vain. I hope that I can count on you to do the same.”

“How could I not?” I ask after a long pause. “When we were in the Holy Tomb together, I made a pact. That I’d see this with her to the end. For the good of Fódlan. And to find my own answers.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Hubert smiles and pulls away, standing with arms held behind his back. “Please keep all of this in mind as we march forward. Fight as best you can for Lady Edelgard.” He falls to one knee in an uncharacteristic display of subservience toward me. “From the bottom of my heart, I beg this of you.”

“Hubert. Please stand. I am not worthy of such displays.” I pause for just long enough to allow him to rise back to his feet. “I would give her no less. I can promise you that.”

On cue, he rises back to his feet and bows. “Understood. Thank you, Captain.”

* * *

_ Day 4 of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _

_ A History of the Great Bridge of Myrddin -- Julian Diederich _

This must be the book that Edelgard and Hubert each alluded to. True to their word, the Imperial library has proven to house a vast collection of tomes, ranging from the historical to the religious, from the philosophical to the scientific. The size of its collection rivals the volume of Garreg Mach’s old library. Thankfully, a well-populated staff of scholars proved more than eager to help me find what I was looking for.

I pull the tome from its shelf and swipe a bit of dust away from its front cover before carrying it away. Thumbing through the pages confirms its contents: a number of maps and artistic renditions of the bridge during its lifespan scattered among the historical ramblings of a scholar long past. They had told me to study these maps closely, analyze past military ventures on the bridge and develop a plan for our attack. Hubert emphasized studying failed attacks on the bridge and to learn from their mistakes, lest we repeat them.

A familiar face sits at a table among the rows of bookshelves. He leans over a book, holding his neck with both hands, elbows propped against the desk’s surface. Were his long hair not tied back, it would probably fall in front of his eyes.

My shoes click across the floor and draw him from his trance. His sleepy, vacant eyes stare back at me. “Hello, Professor,” he says. “Fancy meeting you here.”

I set my collected books down on the desk across from him. “Linhardt,” I reply, “I told you before. I’m not a professor anymore.”

“Forgive me, it feels wrong to not call you by some form of honorific. What was the title that Her Majesty had bestowed on you? Captain? That should work just fine.”

I roll my eyes. “My name is more than fine.”

He does not respond. I decide to not expend any more effort on his stubbornness than necessary. Instead, I open my selected volume and begin studying.

According to the book, Myrddin has proven to be an important vantage point between Alliance and Imperial territories. As the only avenue across the Airmid River separating the two nations, it has long stood as a testament to their shared good relations. The few previous attacks from either side across the primary structure had all proven fruitless. I can see now why Edelgard wants to take control of it as a show of strength.

I start to sketch out a top-down view of the bridge’s current architecture from the book’s various maps. The structure is split into components, each joined by a set of smaller rope bridges across the river below. A fortress sits to the northern side hidden by inner stone walls. Landscape drawings display the height of the outer walls and spires along the length of the bridge. I make a note of them in the margins, and their probable use as vantage points.

Drawing lines through sketches, I plan out a possible attack. A full-frontal assault would be suicidal, and unnecessary given our access to Dorothea’s battalion of court mages. We could try to use them as a way to cut off any reinforcements from the rear, should enemy scouting parties be returning to the bridge behind schedule…

“Captain,” Linhardt says from across the table.

I look up from my book and the sketches that I’ve drawn out. He’s already leaning across the desk, uncomfortably close to my personal space, his eyes scanning my plans.

“Why are you putting yourself in a position vulnerable to artillery fire? It would be much more effective to split your forces, with a special strike squad to take out the main fortifications over here.” He points to a section of my map near the center of the river, off to the side of the bridge. “Put yourself in your enemy’s shoes. You  _ command _ the bridge. Wouldn’t you want to staff that fortress with artillery to support your primary defenses on the bridge itself?”

I cock an eyebrow. He’s right. “Since when are you a tactician?” I ask.

He smiles. “Hubert has been humoring me for the past few years. Spend enough time around the man and he starts to warm up to you, and we discussed tactics over many a board game. Though I suppose it helped that I was able to bribe him with a steady supply of coffee beans from Dagda.”

I look over my notes again. How could I have missed what he suggested? Maybe the rust really has gotten to me. I’ll need to do more preparations, and probably look into how I can use the Imperial Guard for this. “Linhardt,” I continue, “do you happen to know anything more about Myrddin?”

“Can’t say that I do, sadly. Just an observation I made while you were reading.” He falls back into his former slouch with a yawn, holding his head up by one hand as he stares at his books. “If you’d asked me about Hrym territory? Oh, I could go on about that for hours.”

Is he… baiting me? “Hrym territory? I’m surprised. Isn’t that on the opposite end of the continent from Hevring?”

His smile this time is coy. Definitely baiting. “Hubert has taken a noted interest in the area and tasked me with researching all that I can about it. I believe he’s planned an expedition there while your units move forward into the Alliance. I’m not privy to the exact reasons why, of course, but I have my suspicions.”

“And just what are those?”

He looks around to confirm we are alone in the library. Even so, he leans forward and low, speaking in a hushed voice. “He’s been quite speculative of ‘those who slither in the dark,’ as he calls them.”

I speak far less cautiously. “You mean Lord Arundel?”

He presses a finger to his lips and beckons me down low to match him. “I see that you’re aware of his suspicions, then. From what he confided in me, he has always seen them as a questionable but necessary ally. Much of my time in the library here has been devoted to digging up what information I can about them.”

“Anything interesting?” I whisper.

“Sadly, no. The Church seems to have been exceedingly thorough in their elimination of any records even mentioning their existence.” He looks to the side, dejected. “But, that’s what Hubert hopes to uncover on his journey to their territory. They are still, as far as we know, very trusting of him. And he’ll have backup in the area should the worst come to pass.”

“But our army is supposed to be charging through Leicester. What backup forces can we even spare?”

Linhardt frowns. “Jeritza will be his retainer for the journey.”

Jeritza… That name sounds familiar. Wasn’t he a professor at the academy? Yes. The one who kidnapped Flayn. “The Death Knight? Seriously?”

He nods. “I’m sure you feel conflicted over his continued presence in our ranks, but he has proven… very useful, in a way. Arundel and his liege seem much more inclined to trust us while he is around. I do not know why, but there is something unique about him.”

I sigh. ‘Conflicted’ is one word to use. Far too eager to fight me at every turn. I wonder if that will still be the case, now that we’re on the same “side.”

He sits up straight, and the volume of his voice returns to normal. “But, coming back to Myrddin, I’ve heard that you are meeting with Caspar sometime in the coming days. You might be able to get some information from him. He should know that area fairly well.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I say, rolling my eyes, “but I’m not so sure how much I trust Caspar’s take on big picture tactics.”

Linhardt snickers, almost like a boy-ish giggle. “I can’t fault you for that, I’m afraid. He was never one for subtlety or patience, despite his other charms. If you think he was just like that in the monastery, then I have bad news for you. Once, when we were children, he tried to barge his way into a mutual friend’s birthday party uninvited. The friend’s parents were apparently… worried about Caspar playing rough with the other children.”

“That’s an… oddly specific memory,” I say.

“Is it? I would think it normal to remember moments like those that exemplify who your friends are on the inside.”

“I always assumed you two were much closer than that.”

His cheeks flush, and he scratches one of them with a single nail. “I’m not quite sure what you’re insinuating, Captain.”

A grand bell rings from some nearby spire, its tone echoing through the hallways and interrupting my soft laughter at his expense. On cue, I snap my open books shut and collect my notes. “I’m afraid I must be going. I’m glad we got to talk, Linhardt. And I appreciate your help.”

He nods. The warmth of his smile matches his eyes this time. “Of course, Captain. Best of luck in the coming weeks. Do be safe out there.”

* * *

_ Day 6 of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _

_ Late morning _

I coil a white cloth bandage around my hand and wrist, twisting and turning it over the contours of the joint and between each finger until everything feels properly reinforced. It stretches, gives, and tugs back at my skin along with it, leaving the muscle underneath taut and firm. A quick clench of my fist to test it, and… perfect. A firm punch into my open palm leaves little but a sting where my knuckles meet the heel.

A stocky young man sits cross-legged on the opposite side of the training ring. His musculature draws immediate attention from the eyes. A collection of scars across his bare shoulders and chest tell story after story of past battles. They trace down his forearms, where a pair of strong, bandaged hands rest on his knees. Unkempt, lightly-colored hair flares to one side of his head, his temples shaved down to mere stubble. He takes a deep breath through his nose and releases slowly through parted lips. “Been too long, Teach,” Caspar says; his voice barely matches the shrill, boyish tone that I once knew. I recall being caught off-guard when I first heard it earlier today. The Caspar that I remembered was still very innocent and naive, a rambunctious and anxious fighter… always putting his nose in places where it did not belong.

“Five years, give or take?” I ask, cinching the fresh bandage against itself to secure it before resting my hands on my hips.

Caspar rises to his feet. “Somethin’ like that. Maybe a month or two on each end, but who’s countin’?”

“Do you really want me to answer that question?”

He smirks. At least he’s kept his cocky attitude. The kid always did show heart. “So what if I was? Number of people who could gimme a good fist-on-fist brawl here in Enbarr? Sure as hell lower than who could in Garreg Mach.” He cracks his knuckles. “You’d think a war wouldn’t soften people up! Or maybe I’m just that much harder.”

“Maybe you’ll actually stand a chance this time, then.” I sweep my hair back into a single tail and secure it with an elastic band. One strand hangs in front of my face; annoying, but bearable. My feet spread shoulder-width in a slight squat, raising my hands in a loose brawler’s stance. “I’ve got five years of rust to shake off. Seems fair, yeah?”

“That’ll just make this easy.” He matches my stance. Guess he held onto my fighting style from our days of sparring together at the Academy. “Try not to fall over.”

No more room left for words. We inch toward one another with small steps, holding our guard up for unexpected charges. A shuffle of feet kicks up dust from the mock ring. The sound of bated breath roars in my ears as I focus. I study his face, watching for any movement from his limbs in my periphery. His brow furrows. A bead of sweat trails down his temple. His light-blue eyes glimmer in the open sunlight. And just when did he get taller than me?

…there. An opening on his left flank.

The first fist flies. He deflects. I toss another, met by his forearm. His knee aims for my stomach, but I turn it aside, only for his grip to find my shoulder and force my face into the dirt. I pick myself up on one hand, the other brushing the dust off my face.

Kid has definitely improved. Either that or I’m far more rusted than I thought. Maybe a mix of both.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that, Teach!” His cackling voice booms over me.

I chuckle to myself and sweep a leg across his ankles on my ascent. He stumbles. A pivot of my body on my wrist and I’m upright again, feet rooted to the ground. I press my advantage. One jab, two jabs, three jabs, each pushing him back step by step to the edge of the ring. “Something like this, eh?” I shout between attacks.

On the next pair of jabs, he stops each fist cold. I try to wrest free from his grip, but he only squeezes harder. “Yeah, definitely better. Buuut not quite good enough.”

His knee comes up again. I knock it away with my ankle.

“You can’t expect me to fall for the same trick twice,” I snap.

“Now  _ that’s _ more like the Professor I used to know.”

Joint meets bone again and again in a flurry of attacks as we each vie for position. The stench of sweat and a touch of blood lingers between us. Our battle cries fill the air with each blow. Exhaustion creeps into my muscles; I hone my focus on the fight at hand, and the numbing pain dissipates for a moment, leaving only the stings of freshly beaten flesh. My breath accelerates through parted lips. The pulse in my neck threatens to leap through the skin.

He’s too relentless. On the back foot again, I deflect desperately. His eyes glow with pride. Somehow, he steals both of my wrists into one of his hands. “Eeee-yah!”

It goes dark.

And I let out my held breath.

Caspar’s open palm greets me mere inches away from my face when I open my eyes. “You got some more rust to brush off,” he says between pants for air. He releases me from his grip. “Good show, though. Definitely gonna give me a run for my money once you’re back in full form.”

“Your arrogance almost got the better of you,” I say, wringing each wrist free. Guess I still have an instinct to teach. “That fight should have been over from the first time I hit the ground.”

“And it was. Was over when you stepped in the ring!”

“You gave me an opening.”

“Yeah, and you took the bait. Twice!”

“Baited or not, that’s a gamble you shouldn’t be taking. On the battlefield, there’s no such thing as who wins at the start of a fight. Only who walks away alive.”

He rolls his eyes. “Geez, it’s just a spar. Are you forgetting who won?”

I sigh. Linhardt was right. The last five years sure haven’t changed how thick his skull is.

“Say, Profes-”

“Byleth,” I interrupt, starting to unwrap the bandages from my hands. It feels wrong for him to call me ‘Captain,’ so I spare him the knowledge of the newer honorific.

“Oh. Right. Sorry, just a habit.” He wipes a stream of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I was just curious about something. What’s it like?”

I turn my head over my shoulder with a cocked brow.

“Being dead, I mean. You got caught in that dark spell a long time ago, but… you said it wasn’t really like you were dead in there. Just lost. I’m curious if it was any different this time.”

What an odd question to ask. I continue peeling away the bandage. “I don’t know if I can really say. I don’t remember much of anything from that time. Just felt like it was… empty. Five years felt like a long night’s sleep.” Finished with my unwrapping, I stare at the flesh of my open palm, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. “You know that numb feeling you get in a wound, where it’s both cold and hot, yet neither at the same time? It was kind of like that, only everywhere. Like I couldn’t feel the blood running through my own veins. Nothing but darkness surrounding you.”

It’s silent for a few seconds. I glance over my shoulder at him to make sure he’s still alive, not that anything would have changed that. “That sounds terrifying,” he says, finally.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “It was. When I woke up in the rift, I just felt hopeless. Like I’d failed.” I take a deep breath and release it quickly, crushing the bandage in my fist. “But I won’t again.”

That thought lingers. Am I being overconfident? If I wanted to be truly honest with myself, how would I say that I feel? The beast terrifies me. The goddess herself challenging me to defeat it? Leading this army in any capacity even though Edelgard doesn’t expect me to take full responsibility? The thought of my former students falling dead on the battlefield if I fail? All mortifying thoughts.

I feel the weight of Caspar’s hand on my shoulder. He must sense my fear. “Teach?” he says. “We’re gonna make it. I promise.”

“That’s a bold promise to make,” I say with a snicker. “Did you forget who Edelgard has us up against? The Church won’t go down lightly.”

He sticks his thumb at his chest. “And did  _ you _ forget who  _ they’re _ up against? I could take on the whole Kingdom army myself, if I had to! But, I guess I gotta hold myself back for the start. Truth be told?” Caspar walks by me as his question lingers in the air. He takes a seat on the edge of our mock ring and starts to unwrap his feet and ankles. “I’m a little jealous you get to see the action so early. Myrddin’s practically my family’s back lawn.”

I tilt my head. “You’re not joining us?”

“Nah. Somethin’ about Edelgard wantin’ us to cover the rear. Don’t want any stragglers. If I had to guess what her  _ real _ reason was, though? She just wants a challenge. Can’t have me runnin’ through ‘em all this early.”

Kids  _ never  _ change.

“Byleth?” He got it right this time. Maybe I spoke too soon. “Do me a favor. Don’t disappear again?”

My pulse quickens. “Caspar, I… You know that I didn’t  _ want  _ to leave.”

He nods. I suppose it would be unreasonable of him to really blame me for dying. I feel bad for blaming him as such. “Well, yeah,” he says. “I’m just sayin’. If we wanna win? We need you. And I’m not just talkin’ about how strong you are. Everyone just seems a little gloomier without you around.” Having finished unwrapping his feet, he stands back up with a groan. His hand meets my shoulder again. “And, she wouldn’t tell you this, but… Edelgard was lost without you, y’know. She took it really hard when you disappeared.”

My cheeks flush. “I’m flattered, but.” I struggle with how to put the warmth in my stomach into words. “…but I’m really not much without all of you, too.”

Caspar laughs from his belly. “Keepin’ up the cheesiness. I like it. You keep that attitude, and Myrddin’ll be easy pickins.” He looks up at the sky; the sun hangs a bit past noon. “Don’t you have a dinner date to catch later? I’d feel awfully bad if you showed up in training clothes and smellin’ sweaty.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t remind me. He’s been  _ insistent _ .”

“Oh, I could tell while catchin’ up with him at the tavern last night! Can’t say I’m too jealous, Sylvain is hardly my type. Still, you need to skedaddle. I won’t keep you any longer.”

I toss my used bandages into a prepared satchel. Hopefully Sylvain won’t mind too much if I take a bit longer to freshen myself up before I meet him.

“Hey, Byleth.”

I turn my gaze back to Caspar. He’s busy collecting his own belongings.

“You’re gonna run into people you don’t wanna see. Not just at Myrddin, but all along the way. Whatever you do? Don’t let them get in the way of what you gotta do.” He slings his bag over his shoulder before craning his head just enough to speak past his shoulder. I can detect a faint smile on the other side. “We’re all gonna be behind you, the whole way.”

* * *

_ Day 6 of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _

_ Early evening _

I overestimated how much time I had left between my sparring session with Caspar and my dinner date with Sylvain. Most of that was probably my own fault with how long I took to bathe and freshen myself up. The hot water and steam just felt too soothing to my sore muscles. I tried to put on some of the makeup that Dorothea had given to me, but the way it felt on my skin made me shiver, and that says nothing about how I could not figure out drawing a straight line on my eyelids. After taking so long to finally decide that makeup was a lost cause, I barely had time to even dry out my hair, so I decided to pull it up into a tight tail and hope that no one would notice.

Thankfully, Sylvain picked out a place that didn’t seem so extravagant.

I sit outside of the place with crossed legs in one of a set of small chairs stationed against the wall next to the entrance. An open book lays in my lap, one of the tomes that I borrowed from the Imperial library. This one is a more general outline of the geography of Leicester. I take a particular interest in the mountains to its northern border with Faerghus separating Daphnel from Charon and Galatea. The text details a great valley on the eastern edge of the range, overflowing with fire and brimstone and near impassable by foot.

A shadow lurks over the pages of my reading. "Hey there,  _ Captain _ .” Sylvain’s voice rings from above. “Sure been a really long time, hasn't it?"

My eyes retain their focus on the book. "Sylvain, we last saw each other a few days ago."

"Yeah, but it's been a long time since we've really had a chance to connect, you know what I mean? When's the last time I got to enjoy dinner with you? That feast after the mock battle at Gronder?"

Having reached the end of my passage, I lick the tip of a finger and fold over the corner of my next page. I’m sure the librarian would have strong words for me about this, but the book has clearly gone through this before already, so I can’t bring myself to care too much. "I recall even sooner than that,” I say, sliding the book into my satchel and finally giving Sylvain my full attention. “Probably right before I left for Enbarr for Edelgard's coronation. Or maybe even at the compound before we went off to battle at Garreg Mach?"

"That last one doesn't count,” he says. He holds his hands on his hips. He’s shed the armor he was wearing previously in the palace, instead opting for something a bit more casual. The dark color his top reminds me of his academy days -- he even keeps the sleeves rolled up and the top unbuttoned to show his collarbone -- but accented with a lighter color on his trousers.

"And the feast after Gronder does? They were both mess halls."

"Garreg Mach's dining hall had way better food than that camp in Varley, and you know it."

"So how does that compare to this place?"

The smile on his face hints at an uncharacteristic coyness. "I'll let you find that out yourself. Better to show than tell."

The interior of the small café thankfully carries a far more casual atmosphere than I anticipated. One of the waitresses cleaning a table nearby scowls at us, turning a furrowed brow to me in particular. Damn it all, Sylvain, you never give up playing with girls’ hearts, huh? Another waitress, far more friendly than the other, sees us to a side table by an open window garnished with small vases and assorted colors of tulips. Before we can even be seated, the waitress nudges Sylvain and asks if he would like his usual cup of tea.

“Yep, bergamot,” he affirms with a wink. “You know the one.”

“Awesome, I’ll get that started for you too!” She prances off behind the counter after.

Sylvain takes his seat across the table from me. I toss him a glare. “Sylvain,” I say. “You had a thing with one of those waitresses, didn’t you?”

“Cap, do you really expect me to  _ not _ have things with girls by now? Honestly.” Fair point. “And before you talk my ear off: yes, I know that this is not a date.”

…what? “Who are you and what have you done with Sylvain?”

“I had a feeling you’d say that,” he says with a snicker. He leans forward, propping his elbows against the tabletop and locking his fingers together like a bridge to support his chin. “I just wanted to take the opportunity to catch up with you before we go on  _ our trip _ , y’know? Can’t really fault me for that.”

“No, I suppose I can’t,” I reply. The waitress interrupts us, setting the pot of steaming tea on the edge of our table. The steam teases at my nostrils with hints of lemon, lime, and orange.

Sylvain picks the conversation back up where we left off. “So. How’s your stay in Enbarr been so far? I assume you’ve found enough ways to keep yourself busy and out of trouble.”

I take a sip. The temperature catches me off of my guard, and I’m forced to swallow it before it scalds my tongue. I take a moment to compose myself, holding a fist against my chest. “Busy enough, yes,” I finally reply, exasperated. “Edelgard’s been adamant that I brush up as quickly as possible on Leicester geography. Something about wanting me to be able to pull my own weight.” I take another sip of tea, savoring its citrus tones. “But it’s been little more than a week for me. You’ve got five years to catch me up on,  _ General _ .”

Sylvain rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “That stuffy old title? Please. If you’d rather I not call you Cap, you can just tell me.”

I giggle at his expense. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I think it’s fine. It’s better than ‘Captain.’” On the final word, I lower my voice to a gruff tone and give my best impression of a pompous noble. We share a laugh together. “I was just teasing you,” I say. “You’ll have to forgive me.”

“I won’t lie, I didn’t expect to be put into a position like this when I retreated back to the Empire after Garreg Mach.” He holds his cup of tea up to his lips, but does not take a drink, letting his gaze wander out the window. “So much has changed, Cap. The last five years have been full of heartbreak. Plenty from girls, yeah, but worse than that. From friends and family becoming enemies.” He shakes his head and takes a gulp of his tea, stalwart enough to ignore the temperature and swallow it in one go, then brushes his hair back with his palm.

Words feel insufficient. I reach forward with one hand. He takes it and crushes my fingers in his grip.

“All my closest friends when I was a kid?” His voice cracks under the pressure of his own throat, and he sniffs once. “They're on the other side now. Ingrid. Felix. Dimitri. It makes my stomach turn, makes me wanna drink until I can’t think straight anymore. I’ve been fortunate enough not to see them all this time.” He lifts his head back up. His light brown eyes glisten with stifled tears. “Truth be told, Cap? One of the things that kept me going was the hope that you'd return one day. And now here you are, sitting right in front of me. A whole lot has changed, but you're back. It's the first time I can remember being hopeful in a long while."

I can recall the sentiment of fighting against friends at Garreg Mach, vividly so. The looks on their faces ranging from shock to horror to disappointment to anger. For the first time that I can remember, I feel as if I can really identify with Sylvain, and with the emotion he’s communicating. A sudden overwhelming feeling of uncertainty and remorse.

It terrifies me.

“Sorry,” he says, wiping away at the corners of his eyes and faintly chuckling. “I didn’t expect to get this sentimental over a cup of tea. I’m sure it’s not the image you were expecting.”

“Sylvain,” I answer. I try my hardest to keep my expression flat and stoic. I’m sure he needs that right now. What would Dad say here? He never seemed very good at this kind of stuff either. Maybe I inherited that from him. “We joined Edelgard because we trusted her, right? Because we wanted the same world she envisioned.

“Yeah. You’re right, and I know it already.” He releases my hand and downs the last of his tea. “I’m not so hungry anymore. Are you?”

I shake my head.

He leaves behind a few coins at the table to pay for our drinks. As we exit the café, he turns to me. “That was much shorter than I expected,” he says. “But I think what I really needed was to get all that off my chest. I hope you’re okay with that.”

“Of course, Sylvain. If anything? It makes it feel more like old times.”

He grumbles. “I should let you get back to your room in the palace,” he continues. “I guess I’ll see you at Merceus, yeah? Not too long before it’ll be… even more just like old times.” His expression turns sour at the thought. “Let’s do some good out there, Cap. We owe it to everyone we’ve already lost, and to everyone else we can still save.”

I force another smile and pray that he can’t see right through the facade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this one is; there was a lot of character development to be done, establishment of motivations and weaknesses (especially for Sylvain, a defector), etc.
> 
> Unfortunately, Byleth has been reminded of two aspects of the war that will come to trouble her: the alliance of the Empire with the Agarthans, and the thought of meeting her former students in battle.


	4. The Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude makes his debut and deliberates with Judith on expectations for Myrddin and its aftermath.
> 
> Edelgard and her company make their final advance into Airmid territory to prepare for their assault on the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Their scouting report delivers unwelcome news on the forces manning the bridge.
> 
> Or: finally some Edelgard/Byleth shipper fuel.

_Day 14 of the Guardian Moon, 1186_  
_Derdriu_

Judith von Daphnel leans against a bookcase in the official chambers for House Riegan. “I trust you’ve read the reports, boy?”

Her liege, Claude von Riegan, sits at his desk, rummaging through the papers scattered about the tabletop. “Naturally, what do you take me for?” He holds a slip of parchment up in front of his face; the document details movements of enemy troops across the Imperial border. Rubbing his chin, he studies the text and associated diagrams carefully. Normally, troop movements in Imperial territory would be little of his concern; troops regularly marching from fortress to fortress inside their own borders was a usual occurrence. That Judith would bring this to him was already cause for concern.

Claude scratches the top of his head, twirling a few loose strands of hair hanging in front of his face. “Suspicious motions in Merceus, huh? You really think Edelgard is preparing for all-out war again?”

Judith looks at the floor. “We can’t say for certain, obviously. But my scouting parties say they’ve had plenty of supply caravans and merchants coming into that fort. Blacksmiths, apothecaries, a local militia or two. Honestly, I’d be surprised if she _ wasn’t _ mobilizing.”

“Could be she’s got wind of an attack coming from the Kingdom,” Claude says as he leans back in his chair, propping his feet against his desk as he continues reading. “Wants to make sure she’s got as strong a wall as possible in front of Enbarr. I’m just thinking aloud here, though. You’re probably right.”

“I realize this is your first rodeo, but have some sense, boy.” She stands up straight, holding one hand against her hip and scowling at the young noble. “If Faerghus were planning to attack the Empire, we’d have gotten a request for aid from them. I know you’re not on the best terms with the new King, but you two are far from enemies.”

Claude sighs. “You’re right, you’re right. And Edelgard’s never been one for subtlety. If she didn’t attack with all this commotion going on over there, well, I’d say it’d be downright rude of her.” He runs through the scenarios in his head. The most obvious one seems the most probable. “If she is planning to attack, I bet she’s ultimately trying to take the long way around to the Kingdom, through the mountains and House Galatea.”

“Or,” Judith interrupts, “she wants to eliminate any chance of our army bolstering Fhirdiad. Why fight a dragon with two heads when you could fight a dragon with one?” She approaches the desk. “So. We about to just stand by and let them trample over us? If she’s coming, there’s only one feasible way for that kind of army into Leicester.”

Claude shakes his head. “_ You’re _ asking me for _ permission _ to fight an invading army, Miss Daphnel?” His pearly whites beam in her face. “You’ve got my backup units, right?”

Judith nods. “They arrived in Myrddin right as I left for this very meeting.”

“Then you’ll be in good hands,” Claude says. He pulls his feet off of his desk, setting his chair back into its proper upright position. “I’d trust those two with my life. Barring anything…,” he pauses, waving his free hand in small circles in the air, “exceptional, I have faith in you.”

"And just what are we to do about the Kingdom? We should tell them about the incoming attack, so they're ready to come to our aid in case we lose Myrddin.”  
  
Claude produces a pen from his side drawer. He scrambles through the papers on his desk for a blank piece of parchment. “Way ahead of you, Judith,” he says. “I’ll even do you one better. I got a plan already drawn up in case we lose and they _ don’t _ come.”

She chuckles and rolls her eyes. “Another of the patented Claude von Riegan schemes?”

“When has one ever let you down?”

He was right, and she knew it. “You’re lucky you’re handsome, kid. When do you think we could expect Kingdom reinforcements to show in Derdriu?”  


Claude ponders over the blank slate in front of him, twirling the tip of his pen between his teeth. “My best guess… assuming they aren’t well mobilized already and respond quickly, two weeks and change? Should be just in time for Edelgard to come knocking on our doorstep, with a little help from our dear fellows.” He scribbles out the start to his letter bound for Fhirdiad. “Don’t you worry, though. I’ve got it under control. You’re dismissed.”

* * *

_Day 15 of the Guardian Moon, 1186_  
_Early Morning_  
_Merceus_

“_Captain~_? Are you ready?”

Dorothea’s voice rings from the door to my chambers. I must have left it open absentmindedly. I run through a mental checklist on the state of my equipment. Boots feel snug against my shins and calves. Gauntlets feel the same -- wait, one of the straps is loose against my forearm. Easy enough fix. Belt hoists a sheath for both my sidearm dagger and the Sword of the Creator. Satchel is stocked with a variety of supplies: whetstones, mending herbs, a few batches of tea leaves… Everything seems to be in order.

I push a few strands of hair away from my face. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” I answer.

Dorothea stands in my doorway with her arms folded across her chest. “Can’t say I remember you being this obsessive back at the Academy,” she says. “You sure those five years didn’t knock a few screws loose?”

“Positive. Missions at the Monastery were always short affairs. Gone for a week at most.” I toss the satchel over my shoulder. “But Edelgard was saying that this could be a months-long campaign. Reminds me of mercenary work. Pack lightly, hop from town to town to resupply and rest for the night. Wake up early the next morning to do it all over.”

She nods. “I keep forgetting about that. I guess it’s not too unfamiliar to you.”

We leave the room together. “Besides,” I say as we walk, “it’s just a temporary room. Can’t afford to leave anything behind.”

It’s been about a week since we left Enbarr, stopping in Merceus to make our final provisions and gather a few more troops who were stationed there. Deep as it is into Imperial territory, Edelgard seemed unconcerned about the fortress being short-staffed while we pressed forward into Leicester; I’m inclined to believe her given the number of troops stationed here. Supposedly General Randolph is set to be assigned command of the fortress after our departure, though I can’t say that I’ve seen him around. I wonder if he will remember me as Ladislava did at that first council meeting.

The halls of Fort Merceus are much darker than those of the Imperial Palace. With hallways constructed of raw stone and illuminated by perpetual torchlight, it feels more like a dungeon than a fortress. Few windows permit natural lighting. It was nice the first night or two, allowing for a long night’s rest well into the morning -- or, in my case, the early afternoon -- but quickly turned depressing.

The exterior is not much brighter. Gray clouds blanket the sky in a melancholy glow characteristic of Fódlan winter. A cold wind blows from the south, whipping both mine and Dorothea’s hair as we exit the main hall of the fortress. I pull a strip of cloth out of my side satchel and gather it all into a tail before tying it into place. Dorothea just pushes it behind her ears and pulls it over her shoulder

Edelgard stands in the center of the plaza surrounded by a collective of troops gearing for march and merchants peddling their goods. Surprisingly, she still bears her court attire, a crimson dress and cloak befitting her ladylike appearances but far from imposing on the battlefield. She’s not _ seriously _ planning to fight in that dress, right?

A man perhaps half a foot taller than Edelgard stands near her, the two of them lost in conversation. His hair is neatly cropped and colored a dirty blonde, and his armored suit bears few distinguishing features.

“Edie!” Dorothea calls to her as we approach, “I picked up our guest for you, just like you asked.”

Edelgard turns her attention to us. “Ah, there you are. I was wondering if you would sleep the day away again. Captain, allow me to _ re _-introduce you to General Randolph. You recall him from the attack on Garreg Mach?”

The man offers me a tender smile. “She may not, but I do remember her. That hair is unmistakable.” He extends a hand to me. “Randolph von Bergliez. An honor to fight alongside you again. She has spoken quite highly of you.”

I take his hand and offer a shake. “Caspar’s uncle, correct? I thought I recognized the face.”

His brow arches. “Quite the memory you’ve got there, lass. Color me impressed.”

“He _ was _ a student of mine. I took great care in bonding with them all. And he was also rather fond of you, if I recall correctly.”

Red tints his cheeks. “And she flatters, too! Her Majesty was right to praise you as she did.”

A girl about my height trots into the circle of we four, chewing on a pastry. The color of her hair matches Randolph’s, though her eyes glimmer with a light cerulean. “Randolph, I brought those sweets you wa-” She turns to look at me. I can tell that her widening eyes are fixed on my hair. “Oh! Who’s this?”

“Fleche,” he says to her, “it’s rude to interrupt.” She slinks away slightly, continuing to munch on her treat. He turns back to me. “This is my little sister. She’s just a rookie, but she’s been helping me as an operational assistant.”

She swallows her bite. “H-hello,” she says. “I’m Fleche von Bergliez.” She bows, dropping a pastry onto the ground in the process, much to her dismay as it rolls in the dirt. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m not much of a fighter, but I’ll do my best to look after my big brother!”

Edelgard interrupts our conversation with a clearing of her throat. “I’m sure that you two would prefer to reacquaint yourselves, but we really must be going if we’re to make it to Airmid by dusk. General Gautier and his battalions have already gone ahead of us. Camp should be set up before we arrive.”

Dorothea takes a few steps forward past me. “Surely you’ve arranged a carriage for us, Edie?” she asks. “And one for all of your combat supplies, too. Weapons, armor, shield…”

“Of course I did,” Edelgard says. “They’re waiting for us just outside the fortress walls.” She turns her attention back to Randolph. “General Bergliez. Fort Merceus is now under your command. Guide her well.”

Randolph nods and bows in courtesy before we depart. “Of course, Your Majesty. She is in good hands.”

True to her word, a light caravan waits for our party of three outside the walls of the fortress. A conductor stands at the ready next to a single open carriage carried by a pair of horses. He gives a salute as we approach; as the first to board, the Emperor acknowledges him. “At ease, soldier.”

Our road to Airmid proves to be as long as Edelgard suggested. We find ways to pass the time by talking amongst one another, telling stories from our childhood that stand out to us. I share a story of the first time I rode a horse without Dad to guide me, and how terrified I was of being kicked off amidst the ongoing battle. Edelgard talks a bit about her time in the Kingdom, and about a noble boy who she tried to teach to dance while he couldn’t tell his left foot from his right.

Dorothea sings a song or two for us, joking about how she plans to write an opera about Edelgard once the war ends.

_ Hail, the mighty Edelgard, _

_ Though red blood stains her story… _

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she remarks. “I’m a bit out of practice.”

The hours roll by quickly at first as we joke and laugh together, but slow to a crawl as our energy fades.

Edelgard lies on one of the longer seats in the wagon, emitting an occasional light snore in irregular rhythm. Dorothea and I had to ensure that she would lie down in the first place -- she had fallen asleep sitting up, and we worried that the constant bobbing of her head might wake her. It can’t be the most comfortable of arrangements, but I’d not be surprised if she has had her fair share of sleepless nights recently. I try to imagine the stress of carrying an empire on her shoulders, of the uncertainty if her war would end the way that she wanted… she had spoken to me of those burdens once before a lifetime ago. I feel as if I can relate to her, in a way.

Dorothea has opened a small gap in the carriage’s covering. She peers out into the surrounding scenery, basking in whatever sights it offers her as her hair rustles in the wind.

I unsheathe my sidearm dagger, staring at it as I flip it about in my grip. A quick study shows a few dull spots. Reaching into my satchel, I produce a small whetstone and get to work with sharpening them out, an old ritual that I picked up from Dad back in our mercenary days. He always said a freshly sharpened dagger would bring good luck in a future battle. With Myrrdin on the horizon, I figure I can get a head start.

Dorothea’s voice breaks the silence. “Captain?”

I look up. She beckons me and opens the gap in the covering further

A familiar scenery fills my view. We ride across the cliff tops surrounding a vast, open field. A creek runs through the field, and a bridge grants passage across it onto a central hill dotted with trees and constructed stairways. The vegetation grows dense to the east, and walls built of roughly-chopped wooden stakes litter the western side. Off in the distance, I can make out a few structures of stone, perhaps a sacred altar to the goddess?

“Gronder,” I whisper.

She nods. “It feels like it wasn’t so long ago we were fighting here against our friends, yeah? Playing pretend in some kind of make-believe fantasy. Tossing around mock swords and lances in commemoration of some battle fought by kings we never knew. I remember Edie and Ferdie having a competition with each other to see who could rack up a higher score.” A giggle accentuates her last statement. “Lions and Deer falling one after another as they strove to outdo each other.”

“Don’t remind me,” I say, “I still remember pushing them both into doing that.”

We share a short laugh.

“And I remember,” she continues, “celebrating our house’s victory afterward. Everyone laughing and enjoying each other’s company. It feels like just yesterday, like I can still taste the dishes and sweets.”

“And then came Remire Village,” I say, “and everything turned sour.” I think back to the conversation with Sylvain we had over tea. Friends becoming foes. Faces not seen for years, but forced to kill each other. The terrible price of war.

Her sigh is heavy. “It’s terribly morbid. I don’t think any of us imagined what would happen in the months to come. Not in our wildest dreams. What a nightmare those have turned out to be, huh?”

I close the canvas covering and turn back to her. She still looks out across the open field. “Do you really think of it like a nightmare?” I ask. I was hoping that she might remain strong, might be a pillar I could lean on while I fight back this jabbing pain in my stomach.

She tilts her head, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Don’t you? It can’t sit well with you. Knowing we’re going to have to fight against people we used to study and train together with.”

“I…” I’m slow to respond. My head hangs low. “I guess that part hadn’t quite clicked with me yet.” It’s a little white lie. “I’ve been too focused on the end and didn’t stop to think about what it will take to get there.” Their faces -- the ones who we celebrated with in that grand feast after the mock battle -- appear before me one by one in a steady march. Ingrid and Raphael’s ravenous appetites. Ferdinand and Lorenz bonding over a cup of fresh tea. Claude plotting a scheme on Dimitri, only to be foiled by Dedue’s watchful eye

Who would I still see? And would their faces alone deter me? Certainly many of them would not be thrilled to see me. Even if they were, the world is at war. We could be unfortunate enemies on opposite sides of a conflict, forced into action against one another. The thought is…

A warmth envelops my hand before it can ball into a fist. “You’re not alone in that struggle, Byleth.” Dorothea’s soft eyes greet me when I look up. She continues, “We all have to deal with it.”

My stomach sinks, and my throat tightens. Something inside me feels bottled up, but I’m not quite sure how to properly express it. I simply nod with a blank expression. “Do you regret it?” I ask. My voice is about to break.

She looks back out onto the fields as we pass by. “Sometimes. But it’s been so quiet recently, in the years since you disappeared. Edie spent so much time looking for you that she never had much time to further the war herself, just letting everyone else wage it in her place. Now that you’re back, she’s… got this fire in her. It reminds me even more of what she was like back then, and I think that makes it harder.” Her grip on my hand tightens. Her nails -- surprisingly well-kept as they are -- dig into my skin. She turns her head, looking over her shoulder at the sleeping Emperor. “But I can’t leave her. She needs me… you, all of us, more than ever.”

I nod, and pull her into my arms. She leans into the embrace. We stay like that for a while in relative silence, broken only by the creaking of our carriage and the clacks of shod hooves against a weeping earth. “I won’t leave her, either,” I say. “I’ll make sure we all come out of this together.”

Neither of us speaks for the rest of the trip.

* * *

_Day 15 of the Guardian Moon, 1186_  
_Dusk_  
_Airmid_

Edelgard stirs awake soon after our arrival into Airmid lands, as if on cue. She rubs her eyes lazily as she rights herself, looking around in a daze. A few strands of her hair have come loose from her arrangement, but far from enough to notice at a passing glance.

I run another stroke of my whetstone over my dagger, smiling at her as she looks my way.

Dorothea sits off to my side, thumbing through a spare tome emblazoned with a stylized lightning bolt. She looks up from her reading at the sounds of Edelgard’s rise. “Have a good nap?” she coos.

Edelgard yawns. “I suppose.” Her voice hangs lower than normal, characterized by a groggy gravel. “For how long was I asleep?”

Dorothea shrugs. “Can’t say. We should be reaching the Airmid camp soon, though.”

“Should be ‘bout another half-hour at most, Your Majesty!” chimes our carriage conductor.

The following half-hour feels longer than the rest of the trip. Call it travel jitters. But, surely enough, it passes before the sun threatens to fully creep past the horizon. The sky glows with a brilliant orange as we leave the carriage, streaked with the purples of twilight. The chilly night air begins to set in; somehow, it’s colder here than in Enbarr. I wrap my arms about myself and shiver, rubbing the bare gooseflesh with my palms before pulling my arms through the sleeves of my cloak.

Rows of tents sprawl in a loosely scattered grid across the hilly terrain of Airmid. Makeshift walls built from stacks of logs and bags of sand line the perimeter of the camp, stationed with infantry patrolling the outer wall and standing guard at the entrances. As we walk through the camp, more than a handful of onlookers stop in wonder. Their eyes most commonly fix on the Emperor. At least one of the soldiers remarks that he imagined her to be quite taller.

In the center of camp, a ring of more elaborate tents stands like a beacon. Two men sit next to a fire outside them. One bears a mop of brightly colored hair, donning the same gray plate armor I saw him wearing in the palace. “It’s about time you ladies showed,” Sylvain calls to us, rising from his seat next to the fire. “You’re just in time. Ashe brought the final scouting report with him.”

“…Ashe?” I ask, leaning to one side and peeking around Sylvain.

The other man rises from his seat as well. A mess of silver hair, sharp green eyes, a barely visible splotch of freckles across his nose… by the goddess. He hustles over to me with open arms. “Professor!” he cries with a hug so fierce that I feel he could tackle me to the ground. With how much he’s grown over me, it wouldn’t surprise me if he did. “Sylvain mentioned you were alive, but I couldn’t believe it. But now, seeing you with my own eyes…” He pulls away, gripping my shoulders, tears tugging at the corner of each of his eyes and threatening to stream down his face.

“It’s good to see you again, Ashe,” I say “You’ve definitely done your fair share of growing up.”

A flush of red floods his cheeks, much to my own amusement. “Well, I guess that’s what five years’ll really do to ya.”

Edelgard clears her throat. “Ashe,” she continues, now with everyone’s attention. “Do you have a field report for me?”

“Your Majesty! Of course.” He offers a courtesy bow before reclaiming his seat by the fire. “I was just talking through it with Sylvain before you arrived. He’s been briefed on most of the details already.”

Sylvain follows suit. “We’ll try to keep things birds’ eye view for you, Your Majesty.” He turns and winks at me. “And just a little higher up for _ you _, Captain. I’m sure the politics parts bore you as much as they do me.” Leaning a bit closer, he whispers in my ear, “Maybe we can balance it out with a bit of fun later?”

…so much for “this isn’t a date” Sylvain.

Dorothea flicks his temple with her forefinger. “Keep it in your pants, playboy,” she barks. “This is war.”

Ashe produces a small booklet from a pocket in his cerulean coat. He flips through the pages to one marked with a folded corner. I can scant see a few diagrams and notes scribbled in the margins. Clearing his throat, he begins.

“Suffice to say, Your Majesty, that the garrison at Myrddin is more equipped than we first reported, though not by much. My original report from a few weeks back is still _ mostly _ correct. Commander Daphnel seems to be leading the stationed forces, judging by the banner flown from the bridge’s towers. I sent a spy to try and verify this information, but… he has not returned in a few days.”

“My guess?” Sylvain continues. “They know we’re coming. They might not be certain on how soon, but definitely that we are. If we’re lucky then they haven’t had time to summon reinforcements from the rest of Leicester.”

Edelgard rubs her chin and stares at the fire. “Their closest ally would be House Ordelia. Yet with Lysithea already installed as our emissary, I can’t imagine that they would honor a call for aid. House Gloucester should not interfere, either, though they are much more neutral in stance than Ordelia.”

“Knowing Lorenz and his family?” Sylvain opines. “They won’t budge from their cushy estate if they don’t have to. They’ll just relax and wait until we come to them.”

“Our position shouldn’t be compromised, then,” Edelgard continues, “but we _ should _ expect more resistance on our march forward after taking the bridge. Dorothea,” she says, pausing as she turns toward the woman, “would you arrange for a messenger to Bergliez? I want Caspar’s unit to stand ready to march to Ordelia on the morrow. They should not expect any resistance along the way; we’ll cut off any Alliance units fleeing to the south.”

“I just got to sit down again, though!” Dorothea responds with the fakest pout I have ever seen. She rises from her seat by the fire. “I’ll be right back. Messenger hall is… which way again?” Sylvain points in a direction to send her along. She bows and takes her leave.

“There is,” Ashe continues, “more, of course. I was able to gather some information on the layout of the garrison and structure of the enemy forces from a local merchant on his way back to Merceus.”

Edelgard arches her brow. I must also admit intrigue.

“Commander Daphnel has built a front line of strong frontline from local mercenaries. How she was able to gather them so quickly, I am not so sure. Many of the frontline soldiers allegedly come from the same company, known for their skill with axes or in hand-to-hand combat. The merchant also said that they had purchased a surprising number of fresh arrows and ballistae bolts from his wares.”

I remember reading about the layout from my venture into the Imperial library, and from discussing tactics with Linhardt. “There’s an island along the river,” I say. The others widen their eyes at me. “That’s where their main stronghold will be. They’ll be trying to defend it with artillery.”

Ashe nods. “As sharp as ever, Professor. That is what I gathered, as well.”

Sylvain folds his arms across his chest. “Seems like it’ll be a simple enough capture, then. Supporting artillery like that should be easy to deflect, or at least disable. Couple bolts from Dorothea’s battalions should do the trick.”  
  
“There is one thing I neglected to mention.” Ashe raises a finger as he speaks. “I spent a bit of time in the markets in Airmid. In disguise, of course. I had a feeling that something like this might happen.”

Edelgard asks, “Something like… what?”

“In the markets, I came across a handful of soldiers who seemed to be from the Leicester garrison. I don’t know the area as well as I’d like, so I thought I could get to know it better from talking to any troops from the enemy side who wouldn’t recognize me. My uniform isn’t exactly standard for Imperial scouts.”

I feel as though I can tell where this story is going. Kid got cocky and was uncovered, right? Oldest mistake in the book

He hangs his head. “…There were two I recognized. They were in the markets together, and acted like they knew each other well. One, a man, had light brown hair and wore round, bug-eyed glasses. The other, a woman, had hair more like Sylvain’s color. She wore it longer than I remembered, tied into a tail held at the side of her head.”

My stomach sinks.

I can hear their names on Edelgard’s lips cutting through the silence of the creeping twilight. The rest of the camp appears still.

“Ignatz. And Leonie.”

I stand and pick up my satchel, tossing it over my shoulder.

“Byleth?”

“Sorry,” I say. “I need a moment.”

I don’t bother waiting for any further response.

I rush through the camp at a brisk pace, pushing any soldiers blocking my path out of my way. I need to just have a moment away, to myself, to think about anything _ other _ than tomorrow. Hearing their names triggered something in me, though I am not sure what. I felt afraid before, but it feels like nothing compared to this emotion now. Pressure builds in my head behind my eyes. My throat tightens around itself. Time feels as if it flows slowly around me.

Finally, I make my way to a lone hill far away from the center of camp. An oak tree sits perched atop it, its branches stripped bare. I decide that it’s as good a place as any to be alone, set my satchel down next to the tree, and lie in the grass.

The grass is surprisingly soft against my back for the dry season. Stars glimmer in the sky above, swimming through the murky ocean of black in familiar patterns. A chilly winter wind rolls across my body. Thank the goddess for the sash I packed for the trip. Draped over my chest, it offers a bit of extra warmth, though the cold does seep through to the scars on my arms.

I’m not sure how long I lie here, lost in thought. I just focus on the drifting of the constellations.

What Dorothea and I talked about on our way to camp. What Caspar mentioned after we finished sparring. What Sylvain and I talked about in that tea shop. It all finally starts to sink in. I had thought about what it meant to fight against former allies when we prepared to siege Garreg Mach. Yet that was different, somehow. Something back then let me trust that the ones I held most dear would be safe. Maybe a vision from Sothis?

_ Both sides of time are revealed to you, and you alone. _

Another splitting pain in my head, just like when I woke up. Is she trying to speak to me still, even now? I clench my fist tight near my chest. Why am I so afraid now? We can’t lose anyone important to us. I would just turn back the hands of time, and we could take a different path. The goddess trusted me with her power, how could I not use it?

But then why is the future so… dark? As dark as the starlit sky above.

“It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?”

I roll my head to the side. Edelgard stands next to the tree behind me. She’s shed parts of the court attire that she wore on the way to camp, clad only in the subtle undergarments she wore below it which span every inch of skin below her jawline. “You’ve a softer step than I remember,” I say, picking myself up off the ground and sitting with my back against the tree behind me.

“And just when is the last time you’ve seen me in anything less than extravagant?” She takes a seat next to me and mimics my position. “Don’t actually answer that, by the way.”

“Good,” I answer, “because I was going to say, ‘Five years for you, only a few months for me.’”

She rolls her eyes. “You never could stop being a joker. Being dead doesn’t mean time didn’t pass, you know.”  
  
“Edelgard, look at me.” She does so. When did her eyes turn so… “Do I look a day older than I did back then? Be honest.”

She frowns. “Unfortunately no, which I suppose means that I am _ technically _ older than you now. So long as you don’t rub it in my face, I’ll let you get away with it.”

We share an awkward laugh at her expense. Sitting around joking with one another so casually despite the looming threat of tomorrow… I suppose we share a coping mechanism. A silence lingers between us for a while as the laughter subsides.

Edelgard takes a knife to the tension. “I was worried about you,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve seen you show that kind of remorse before like you did back at the fire.”

I ponder for a moment about how to respond. In a way, I suppose she’s right. Dad mentioned that he had never seen me so emotional as during the times after we arrived at the monastery. Thinking back, he was right. It always felt -- still feels -- so alien, like something in me was caught like a lump in my throat. Convenient sometimes. Useful for cutting down bandits. Terrible for expressing how I felt -- or, rather, didn’t feel.

“How do you do it, Edelgard?” I ask flatly.

She doesn’t respond. Her attention is focused on the hillsides away from camp while the loose strands of her hair whip in the night’s soft breeze.

“You said that this war has been going on for almost five years,” I continue. “Basically ever since we attacked the Monastery. It was hard enough back then, thinking about fighting against my old students. Not just for me, not just for you, but for the ones who followed us, too.” Their words at the encampment outside Garreg Mach still haunt me. The uncertainty and fear lingered in all of their voices. I suck in a gasp of air. “But they trusted me. And they trusted _ you _ .” I turn my gaze back toward her and find hers waiting for me. “How did _ we _ do it? How did we let ourselves fight against the people we loved? And how have you lived with the threat of it for years?”

She looks away to the stars. Does she find the same comfort in them that I do?

“To tell you the truth…,” she starts, “it’s the hardest thing that I’ve ever had to do. With how cold the war has been for the past few years, it’s been easy enough. The threat of a rekindling always loomed, but never for more than a week as skirmishes happened across borders.” She pulls her knees to her chest. “Now, on the morrow, we’re the first to strike again. Believe me, I can see the parallels to Garreg Mach.”

“You were uneasy about it then,” I reply. “But you had the resolve to keep going. Don’t you now?”  
  
“Of course I do,” she says, her tone flat. “I have a duty to.”

“To your brothers and sisters, you mean.”

She nods. “Not just them, but to all those who the Church has wronged. Who the nobility have wronged. Who the Crests have wronged. Don’t you see, Byleth? If I -- if _ we _ don’t act now to burn the systemic evil from its very roots, then nothing will truly change. So long as the curse of the Crests plagues Fódlan? Her people will never be truly free. That outcome is unacceptable.”

“Even though we have to kill our friends to get there?”

She closes her eyes. Her head hangs low. “I do not _ want _to kill people, Byleth. I would hope you realize that by now.”

“So then why go to war?”

“Sacrifice the few to save the many,” she muses. “It pains me to think about having to watch my friends and former classmates fall at my feet. Make no mistake, Byleth, I _ do not _ want to kill.” Edelgard shuts her eyes tightly, as if bearing an immense pain. “But the unfortunate reality of war is just that. An unfortunate reality.”

I take a moment to ponder what she’s said before I respond. “There’s just this gnawing ache in my stomach that wonders if there was another way.”

“I really wish there was,” she continues, her voice taking on a sterner tone, “but there isn’t. The world won’t change with slow politics and the deliberation of nobles. Only by burning the system down to its very bones and starting anew can we know true peace, can man truly own the world.”

“Some would say that sounds like the talk of a despot.”

Her eyes widen. A bead of sweat rolls down her temple. “Maybe it does. And maybe I’ve grown colder than I would like to admit. It’s been a long five years without you to ground me along this fated path.”

Why are my cheeks suddenly so warm? “You really shouldn’t be so brash.”

She giggles. Sometimes, when she talks about the war and her ideals, it can be difficult to think of her as a person. Like I’m instead speaking to faceless voice. But I’m thankful for these moments where she reminds me of who she really is. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist the urge to tease you a little. But you really should show some more confidence. Need I remind you which of us was blessed by the goddess?”

I sigh, flipping away a few locks of mint-colored hair with disdain. “You act like I wanted this.” Venom drips unexpectedly with each word. I’m not sure where that anger came from.

Edelgard flinches. “Seems we’re both fated to walk paths that we did not want to, then.”

I let out a long sigh. “In a way, yes. Though I’m not sure the goddess imagined me turning against her own church when she granted me her power.”

“Do you think she would have wanted it to be as corrupt as it turned out to be?”

I grumble. “Do you remember how they used to treat me?” I ask. I don’t wait for a response, not that the question needs one. “They all became so… exceedingly _ accepting _ of me after I changed. But Rhea… Rhea took such a heavy interest in me as soon as I arrived at the monastery. The way she spoke to me in that motherly tone felt so different from the way she spoke to anyone else. It was unsettling.”

“But you trusted her, did you not?” she asks.

“Never entirely. Dad always told me to be wary of trusting her.” I look out across the open fields of Airmid. Another memory comes back to me. “Did I ever tell you about what he left behind for me after he died?”  
  
Edelgard shakes her head.

I continue. “He told me that I would find something important in his quarters if anything ever happened to him. I checked them not long after he passed, of course. There was a diary in his desk. Some of it was written around the time I was born, when he was still a Knight. He talked about how I never cried, never laughed, never cooed, never did _ any _ of the things babies were _ supposed _ to do.” A long pause lingers on my lips. “And he also talked about how much he did not trust Rhea.”

The soft touch of her fingertips graces the back of my hand. They trace short lines across what little bare flesh lies exposed to the night air. “Byleth,” she whispers. “You don’t have to tell me these things if they’re difficult to think about.”

I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. “No, it’s fine. I’ve kept it bottled for long enough. There’s one more thing he mentioned that I’ve somehow always known. But before I tell you… would you humor me, just once?”

She tilts her head. Her amethyst eyes glimmer in the moonlight. “Of course. With what?”

“Could I…” White-hot blood rushes to my cheeks. “Could I feel your heartbeat?”

She flinches. It _ is _a rather odd request, now that I think of it. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but I don’t see why not.” As she takes my hand in the grip of both of hers, I realize just how small they are, how soft and delicate their warmth is. My pulse quickens. She pulls my palm to her chest, just above the top of her breast, and lays it flat against the surface.

_ Thump. Thump. _

I cannot suppress my smile. “So that’s what it feels like,” I mutter.

“Byleth?” she queries. “Is something the matter?”

I reach back for her hand. As small as it is, it easily fits into my grip. “Do you remember,” I start, “all those years ago, when you told me about the nightmares? And later, when you told me about your second Crest? You trusted me with not one precious secret, but two. Two that you had held to yourself for so long.”

The dumbfounded expression on her face says enough. I suppose that I’ve caught her in her least favorite position: defenseless. Her eyes study me warily.

“I want to trust you with another,” I continue. “You know, to call us even.” I draw her hand to the same spot on my chest where she had placed mine, knowing that what she feels is different than what I felt. Holding her close, I shut my eyes. A deep breath fills my lungs and rolls my chest forward and back.

The silence lingers for a while.

“How…,” she whispers. “I don’t understand. Are you _ actually _ a demon?” I can hear a stifled laugh behind her question, though her face does not show it.

“Far from it, I’m afraid. Dad didn’t understand either. I don’t know for certain, but he believed that the Church was involved somehow. That’s why I’m fighting with you. I need to know why, because reading through his diary only left me with more questions than answers about my past.” I pause again. “And this whole goddess possession thing? I think they’re behind that too.”

A smile carves through her face. Did she always have dimples on her cheeks? “I see. Well.” She rises to her feet. “While our ambitions may not be… perfectly identical, it seems that our paths have crossed.” She extends a hand to me. “Shall we head back to camp? We both need our rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”

“Yes. We do.” I nod and take it, just as I did years ago.

_ And I’m happy to walk it with you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to see some of the softer side of Edelgard, and the affection that Byleth has for her (though Byleth doesn't quite understand what that means yet)! Byleth still is obviously uneasy about having to fight and potentially even kill her former students - though she'll try her hardest not to - and that finally comes to a boiling point in this chapter after Caspar and Sylvain first planted the seeds for it in the previous chapter. I'm happy with how this internal conflict is developing for Byleth, but (spoilers!) this is the last time we'll get a direct view into her head for the next few chapters.
> 
> Claude also makes his debut, as conniving as ever; no, this is not just an Empire story. It's clear that the Alliance doesn't know what's coming for them - the Empire has done a sufficient job at keeping Byleth's revival a secret (outside of Rhea sensing it, obviously). They'll be staffed to handle a typical army, but not Edelgard's personal task force or Byleth herself.
> 
> Also, with Byleth revealing her lack of a heartbeat to Edelgard, it should now be readily apparent that this is NOT just Crimson Flower, despite the beginning. Where that leads, only time will tell.
> 
> Next chapter we finally get some action!
> 
> (side note: yes, we changed the main tags to Choose Not to Use, mostly to not spoil things; chapters where Archive Warnings apply will have big content warning headers.)


	5. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under General Judith von Daphnel's banner, Leonie Pinelli leads the charge against the Imperial invasion force. There is, however, one among their ranks that the Leicester defenses did not expect, and her arrival reawakens Leonie's greatest fears. 
> 
> (FINALLY, SOME ACTION)

**CONTENT WARNING: VIOLENCE**

Skip to the end notes for a summary if you wish to skip this chapter.

_Day 16 of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ The Great Bridge of Myrddin _

“Sir, do you see that, on the horizon?”

“I do, soldier," Leonie responds. "It’s unmistakable.”

Above the horizon, Leonie spies what Claude and Judith had feared. Her memory would not let her forget such a distinct insignia: a crimson flag emblazoned with a golden two-headed eagle. For the past week, scouts had sighted extensive movement in the lands north of Fort Merceus, drawing the suspicion of the Alliance leaders. The Roundtable unanimously assigned her brigade to reinforce the bridge’s sparse garrison of Daphnel troops. She, along with her allies, had explicit orders to wait for reinforcements from Lord Gloucester if the forces proved too large to handle on their own, but the size of the invading army concerns her.

“It’s the empire, isn’t it?” asks one of her soldiers. “Do you think they’ve seen us?”

“No, but look at how fast that column is moving," she replies. "They aren’t scared of ambushes, or concerned about alerting us. The size of the dust cloud they’re kicking up isn’t a good sign either--it’s a full sized army.”

“Which means they’ve already scouted the area?”

“Exactly. There’s only one reason an army of that size is all the way out here.” Her fingers anxiously tighten around the Inexhaustible.

The memories of five years ago creep up on her. The fire, the burning, crumbling rubble, the fetid stench of charred flesh, they haunt her. She had fought under the golden eagle back then. She watched as professional soldiers and knights collided with one another, spears gouging through mail, and axes cleaving through plate. She still wasn’t sure if she agreed with her decision back then, to support the newest professor, Jeralt’s daughter. She remembers how they cut down and murdered the students that took up arms against them, how former best friends killed one another. She shivers at the thought. What was she even fighting for back then?

“Shall we return to the bridge, Colonel?”

Leonie’s fists uncurl, the pain becoming apparent as one of her captains brings her back to reality. She nods. “Yes. This is no drill. It’s almost certainly an invasion of Alliance soil.”

“We must inform General Daphnel at once then, sir.”

“Yes, we must. Go, ride to her, and round up any of the other captains still in the field. Have them assemble back in Fort Airmid. I will debrief the rest of them. Don’t worry about being seen, just get back to the bridge as fast as you can. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Understood, sir. Men! You heard the Colonel!” The captain pulls his horse about-face and begins a gallop back northward. The remaining bow knights follow him, kicking up a cloud of dust. Leonie turns her attention back to the approaching Imperial army, watching as a sturdy line of steel-clad fortress knights marches ever closer. She scans above their helmets, her eyes moving from banner to banner, ignoring the ones decorated with a golden two-headed eagle.

Eventually, she spies what she had dreaded seeing: a red and yellow banner with a black eagle flying high above knights with crimson tabards. Behind it, soldiers bear standards with ebony carved eagles, an unmistakable sign of the emperor’s personal taskforce and the Imperial guard. Leonie’s eyes fill with scorn. She could recognize those same symbols from her time as a student at Garreg Mach. She pulls the bridle of her horse around and brings him to a full gallop.

As she rides back to the bridge, the memories of her former classmates haunt her again, appearing as ghastly wisps in the fields before her. She first sees Hubert, the face she loathed the most. He always struck her as sinister and untrustworthy, a snake coiled around the hearts of all of the Black Eagles, especially Edelgard.

Then, the princess herself, now emperor, appears before her. Her mind twists like a tumultuous sea, frothing in turmoil as her thoughts swing from one side to another. On one hand, Leonie had liked her. Edelgard was fiercely competitive, like herself, and was an impressive leader and tactician. She was always friendly and assertive, and always had something to add during the lectures. Even though Edelgard had justified this war to her, Leonie still struggled to accept the number of lives lost in the aftermath. She could not follow her, she could not condone her actions, especially with that… professor dead.

That professor… Jeralt’s daughter, forms before her as a hazy memory. At one point, Leonie thought of her as a rival, someone she could always compete with. However, overtime she found herself unable to win against her no matter how much she tried. She wanted to learn more from her, especially because only she now carried Jeralt’s legacy. She always believed in her, and truthfully… she was the main reason why she even fought with Edelgard to begin with.

What did Byleth see in Edelgard to side with her? To destroy all the friendships they had made at the monastery, to uproot the sense of stability in Fodlan? Who or what was she fighting for, that professor? Claude and other members in the Church had told her that Byleth had died on that fateful battle, but Leonie had never been sure if she could accept that reality.

Shaking aside the apparitions of the past, she looks onward. Ahead of her, the large towers of the Great Bridge of Myrddin peaks from the horizon. The proud yellow and white flag of the Leicester Alliance waves above them in the wind. In peacetime, the bridge acted as a thoroughfare between the Empire and the Alliance. Now, it stood as an iron fortress barricading entry to and from either side. Alliance warriors lower their guard as Leonie approaches, saluting her arrival. She returns their gesture and makes her way to the center of the bridge where the Alliance made camp.

The bridge followed a large, winding path across the Airmid river. While nominally a commercial roadway, it had been equipped with plenty of fortifications to challenge any assault. Imposing walls line the perimeter of the street. Towers guard every few hundred meters of roadway, each protected by battlements and crenelations.

On a large island to the west of the bridge, the Alliance had constructed a massive castle complex where plentiful artillery and archers could fire on to the main road. Rope bridges span across the Airmid back to the main bridge, preventing a direct infantry attack. Arrow slits fill all sides of the fortress, giving it a vantage point over most of the bridge. The presence of the fortress would -- the Alliance hoped, at least -- make taking the bridge from the south all the more difficult. The fortress looms over Leonie as her horse trots past it to the center of camp.

Around her, Alliance soldiers scramble about as they prepare for battle. Warriors sharpen their axes one last time and exercise, while grapplers affix their gauntlets and take practice swings. Snipers and bow knights tighten and stretch their bows. Others run up towers or to Fort Airmid manning their posts. At the center of the camp stand two familiar faces, the other commanding officers of the garrison.

“Hey kid,” the woman says to her.

“Leonie,” the young man acknowledges. His face bears a somber, serious expression.

Leonie nods in reply. “Judith, Ignatz. Have my soldiers delivered the news?”

“Yes, they have,” Judith says. “Though I’m guessing you have more lovely news to bring us?”

“Not anything good, I’m afraid,” Leonie says with a frown. “I stuck around to get a better look on the army, and I managed to make out another banner, different from the usual Adrestian flag. It was red and yellow, with a single headed black eagle.”

Ignatz’s eyes tense. Judith’s narrow.

“That’s not a good sign,” Judith says with bated breath.

“It’s Edelgard, isn’t it?” Ignatz asks.

“It has to be,” Leonie replies with a nod. “It was the same flag they used at Garreg Mach when we were students, and when they attacked the monastery.”

“If we’re fighting the emperor herself, then this won’t be easy at all…,” Judith says, placing a finger to her cheek. “If this were any normal invading army, we would have time to send for reinforcements from Lord Gloucester. But if Edelgard is here, then she will be ruthless. We don’t have the manpower to hold for too long.”

“We can’t just retreat though!” Leonie protests. “If we don’t put up a fight they’ll just end up running through the Alliance completely!”

"Leonie's right," Ignatz continues. “At the very least we have to buy time for Claude. We can’t just back down from this.”

“Woah there, I never said we weren’t fighting,” Judith replies. “We’re going to hold our ground, no matter what. But I don’t want either of you to play hero, alright? Stay alive. We need the both of you.”

Leonie and Ignatz each nod.

Judith smiles approvingly. “Now, we’ve talked about possible invasion plans before. I still stand by our original strategy.”

Leonie remembers it. It was simplistic in execution -- hold them in front of the fortress, and establish a kill zone for the archers.

“However, if Edelgard is present, we should factor in a few other things, shouldn’t we?” Ignatz interjects.

“Exactly right, boy,” Judith replies. She places a hand against her cheek, deep in thought. “Fortress knights are easy enough to deal with, but if the emperor herself is here? We should expect mages, and their air force.

“I’ll be deploying my infantry spread out and have them withdraw over time. It makes our frontline a lot more vulnerable, but it'll keep my men safe from spells and should give you two a better vantage point on their mages. Them and their fliers should be our priorities, got it? You’re both new to all-out war, but I’m putting my faith in you.”

The two younger commanders nod.

“Dismissed then,” Judith says. “Give 'em hell.” She says holding her fist up enthusiastically. “You there, boy!” she barks as a messenger walks by. “Send a missive to Lord Gloucester immediately.”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Leonie and Ignatz part ways as Judith gives out orders to her officers. Ignatz begins calling for his own as Leonie makes southward to Fort Airmid. Members of her brigade wave to her as she passes through the castle courtyard, firmly shielded by stone laden walls. Their faces show a mix of anticipation, confidence, and silent resolve. Some of them she recognizes from Sauin; others merely boys that joined the army to defend it from the Empire, while the veteran core of her army came from mercenaries that served during her time at Garreg Mach. She passes them by, traveling up a flight of stairs to the top of the fortress.

Archers and officers move up, down, and between the floors of the castle. On one floor, they bicker about how many imperials one of them would kill over the other. On the next, logistics officers and siege engineers rush about making last minute preparations. Another flight up, soldiers discuss what they'll prepare for dinner after their inevitable victory.

At last she arrives at the highest level inside the fortress, the officer’s floor. Leonie’s immediate subordinate officers have already gathered, speaking animatedly with one another over last minute preparations. A myriad of junior officers and messengers remain on the sidelines, taking care of the remaining logistics necessary and rushing to perform orders by their superiors.

One of her subordinates notices her. “Attention!” he salutes, and the other officers follow suit.

“At ease!” Leonie replies. “How go the preparations?”

“Fine, sir. The knights are well armed and equipped, the infantry is all accounted for, and the horses freshly shod. All our men are armed, equipped, and ready for battle.”

“And the archers?”

“Ready to deploy at your order, sir,” one of her archer regiment commanders responds. “They are aware of their station and their orders.”

“Good.” Leonie crosses her arms, thinking how best to word the news to her soldiers. “Listen up! The Emperor of Adrestia is our enemy, and it’s very likely that she will show up. We are the first line of defense for our country, for our way of life! The odds are against us, but we _ will _ win. We must, for our families, for our way of life! Fight hard, and we’ll make it out of this alive!”

“Sir, yes sir!” The officers respond unanimously, accepting their fate. Perhaps she had disciplined them better than she had thought.

She continues, “You may inform your men, or keep the information to yourselves. However, I need each and every one of you to be aware of your duty, and the odds against us. My trust is in all of you. Dismissed.”

The soldiers clack their boots together in reply and salute her before leaving for the lower floors. Leonie takes one more flight of stairs up to the rooftop. The wind has picked up from earlier. Dark clouds begin to amass from the west. She takes a few steps toward the edge of the roof, leaning against one of the crenelations to the south.

The Imperial army had spread out from their column formation, taking their battle positions. They still stand several hundred meters away from Myrddin, but the size of their forces worries Leonie. The Alliance had control of a choke point, but she wonders if they had the manpower to contend with an army of that size, especially if Edelgard was leading it. A war horn blares from the Imperial frontline, like the roar of a slumbering bear stirring from its hibernation. Line after line, one by one, more Adrestian horns join the call rumbling like rolling thunder. On command, the massive imperial lines move, their boots marching in perfect, disciplined order.

A proud Alliance trumpet calls in response, and then several more from the fortress and all across the bridge. Beneath Leonie’s tower perch, warriors gather into their formations, standard bearers calling for their units and officers giving their final orders. Archers rush up and down the stairs of the fortress towers, several joining Leonie and manning the embrasures, hurriedly drawing their bowstrings for battle.

Leonie’s eyes narrow and her muscles tighten with anticipation. The wind picks up speed. The infantry lines approach one another, now less than a hundred meters meters apart. They stare one another down, assessing the strengths of their opponents. Minutes pass by like hours as men await their officers to give the final order.

Imperial war horns blare once more, announcing war. The fortress knights accelerate. The earth trembles and groans as the mass of plate lumbers forward, the Imperial army charging as one well-oiled machine. The Alliance trumpets reply, and the mass of warriors and grapplers roar and coax the armored clankers to them.

The Imperial army thunders forward and onto the bridge, rapidly approaching the still raised draw bridges of the western fortress. The pompous Imperial war horn once again cries to the heavens and the soldiers scream a drawn out, “For the Emperor!”

“Daphnel Forever!” The warriors roar in response and the buglers urge them forward. The battle lines break into a head-long charge.

“Nock!” Leonie shouts, the archers around her pulling an arrow from their quivers in unison.

“Draw!” Leonie prepares one of her own, the Inexhaustible beginning to shine.

“Release!”

A bugler blares, announcing her order. Leonie releases her arrow, watching as it splits into two from the enchantment of her bow. Ballistae and catapults follow, then the rest of the archers from all over the bridge. The combined volley from fortress, walls, siege engines, and encampment darkens the sky, a furious rain from both the east and the north onto the charging imperial army.

The infantry lines crash in a mess of noise, steel shields colliding and breaking bone, hammers crushing through plate. Spiked gauntlets pierce through chinks in armor, as axes split helmets and skulls.

“Same angle!” Leonie shouts. “Nock!”

She pulls another arrow from her quiver. “Draw!”

“Release!”

The order repeats, and the fortress again releases an enormous volley of arrows onto the Imperial army. Bodkin arrows fall like a storm, a swarm of arrows puncturing weaknesses in the knights’ armor. Volley after volley, second by second, Leonie’s orders move like clockwork. Minutes -- or perhaps seconds -- pass as Leonie’s words, arms, and weapon move in perfect rhythm. The Imperial line falters and the Alliance remains steadfast, but Leonie’s eyes continue to scan across the battlefield.

She spies a column of cloaked figures rushing to the rear the main Imperial infantry line. Her muscles tighten, and she roars to her officers, “Tell the other captains to target the mages, now! Before they do any severe damage!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

The men dash off, spreading out to inform all the archer companies stationed in the fortress. “Aim for the mages!" she barks. "Same angle, different targets! Nock!”

Leonie shouts, pulling another arrow. “Draw!”

“Release!” Leonie’s arrows fly, but the air already smells of ozone.

A blinding light flashes. Lightning cracks through the sky, and the boom of thunder echoes across the bridge. The blast leaves a blackened, malformed scar on one side of the bridge. Charred bodies of the Alliance soldiers litter the floor, while others howl in pain, covered in electric burns.

Leonie’s eyes burn from the gambit and her ears throb in pain. She steadies herself on the battlements, clenching her teeth tightly together. Although disoriented, she endures the pain, examining the aftereffects.

On the ground the Alliance warriors withdraw, in line with Judith’s strategy. They spread out as Imperial mages continue their assault with smaller casts of lightning. The warriors retreat quickly as Judith’s second line begins to approach. Leonie recognizes the opportunity.

“Do _ not _ stop the volley!” she orders to one of her commanders. “You’re in charge now. Make those mages your absolute priority!

“The rest of you,” she directs to the junior officers, “have the gate raised, it’s time to fight!”

“Understood, sir!”

Confident in her officers, Leonie sprints down the stairs. She leaps down steps in pairs and triplets as she descends, anxious to reach the ground to fight. The Sauin brigade roars and cheers as she arrives in the courtyard. A bugler announces the first charge of bow knights while Leonie snatches a lance and leaps on top of her horse. The stablehands wish her a brisk good luck.

Determination fills her heart as she and the rest of the Sauin brigade storm across the rope bridge and onto the main thoroughfare. A united, “Sauin and Homeland!” war cry rings out as the horses pick up speed into a full gallop. The Empire is slow to respond, the fortress knights unbraced and ill-prepared.

Lances skewer men through plate armor and hooves trample those that fall. The Imperial flank plunges into disarray, the line crumbling from the onslaught. Fire and lightning briefly rain from the sky; the rolling thunder, shrieks of pain, and burning bodies once again assail Leonie’s ears.

Somewhere to the north, the Alliance trumpet calls again and another war cry responds, Judith’s veteran line now holding the front while Leonie’s unit assails the flank. Arrows, ballista quarrels, and catapult ammunition fly at specified intervals, harassing the Empire from afar. She pays them no mind as she throws herself into the fray.

She finds her first target, already engaged with an Alliance brawler, and pierces him with twin bolts from the Inexhaustible. Another knight, slowed by his heavy armor, throws himself at Leonie in vain. One volley pierces his shield first, and another through his helmet, blood dripping from his cracked skull through the visor. Men all around her fight and die in gruesome means, horses whining in pain from axe blows, helmets pierced by gauntlet spikes, and heavy armor impaled by lances.

Amidst the chaos, Leonie finds herself in her natural element: in battle, fighting soldiers, fighting among soldiers, and fighting for her village and all that she loved. Her anxiety and uncertainty had left her, replaced with the primal urge to defend one’s home. Volley after volley, her arrows continue to find their marks, laying low a swath of men like a river of blood. Her men follow her example and fight all the harder under their beloved leader. Leonie protects them with the ferocity of a mother bear, arrows laying low charging knights, lance strikes saving her own from ending blows. The air flashes between lukewarm and searing heat as the imperial mages continue to unleash hellish magic, attempting to salvage the situation with whatever gambits they have at their disposal. Meteors and fireballs fall from the sky, some cut short by a well placed arrow, ending the chant.

The Imperial line, unable to receive the Alliance’s united assault, buckles. Fortress knights fall from mortal wounds, mages slain by quarrels and arrows. Both lines continue to push forcing back the Imperial infantry with every soldier slain.Wounded and battered knights begin to retreat from the frontline. Some try to withdraw, and Leonie wonders if victory is within reach despite the odds.

Her mind goes to Jeralt, wanting to thank him for everything he had taught her. Every arrow fired, every combat art performed, every man killed, all of them paid tribute to him. If only, if _ only_, he hadn’t died so soon.

“I will win this, Jeralt,” she says under her breath as she pulls back another arrow, her voice quivering with determination and desperation. “I will make you proud…!”

The Imperial war horn echoes through the battlefield. Leonie turns to its direction and her eyes widen in horror. Regiments of falcon knights soar overhead, one bearing a massive banner of a black eagle. Underneath them, a column of fortress knights clad in black armor and carrying ebony standards marches forward in disciplined order, their numbers like a sea of steel. The other knights tactically withdraw behind the fresh reinforcements. She swallows, her stomach filling with dread.

“Archers!” she shouts. “Shoot down those falcon knights before they flank us!” Her soldiers respond with a volley, and those out of earshot respond instinctively at the sight of flying enemies. “The rest of you, charge!”

Leonie and the rest of her bow knights fire volley after volley as the falcon knights circle, not yet diving. Some fall, pierced by an arrow, and plummet down to the bridge or into the river. Her paladins couch their lances and pick up speed into a full gallop, warriors and grapplers following in their wake. The black knights stop their march as the paladins close in, forming a tight phalanx, their entire frontline bristles with anti-cavalry weaponry.

The lines collide, and her paladins fall, fatally wounded by braced polearms. Alliance hammerers pound into the black knights, crushing through a handful but far from enough to force the line to yield. Falcon knights dive from the sky, gravity pulling their charges to terrifying speeds. Leonie raises the Inexhaustible and pulls back another arrow, but a wisp of white hair and brilliant golden armor catches her eye and breaks her focus.

Like an acrobat, a woman leaps up above the battlefield. Her roar crashes through the battlefield like thunder, commanding silence as friend and foe alike stare up at her in awe. She carries a massive, glowing axe with two hands, her left arm bearing a great black shield emblazoned with a golden double eagle and the Crest of Seiros. A crown with two large protruding horns adorns her white hair from each tightly-tied bun.

She falls through the air, the axe descending before her, and lands amidst the Alliance infantry. The impact crushes through a warrior as she lands. She spins and jumps across the battlefield, killing infantry and cavalry alike with grace like an unchained beast. With a river of blood flowing beneath her boots, the Emperor of Adrestia scans the battlefield, her amethyst eyes like an eagle watching prey. Then, she leaps back into the Alliance line, her axe raised against the Sauin brigade.

Then, a screech, like metal against metal, like blades grinding blades. To Leonie’s flank, a glowing, whip-like sword extends from above, atop a diving pegasus. Then, it descends, the bearer leaping from the pegasus and into the rear of Leonie’s lines. Shockwaves of energy follow each slice as the bearer cuts through horse, paladin, and warriors like a scythe reaping wheat. The sword retracts back to its owner, now standing atop a sea of dead corpses. Her green eyes shine with an intensity Leonie had never seen before, her shoulder-length green hair swaying in the wind.

Leonie’s heart stops. No matter how much time might have changed their appearance, Leonie could never forget their names, these monstrous entities that had flanked both sides of her brigade.

“Retreat! Retreat!” The Alliance infantry screams in fear, some on the streets cowering and scrambling to run. The emperor wastes no time to execute those that do not run, single, clean swings ending a man’s pleas for mercy, or those that desperately continue the fight. Panic begins to spread across the Alliance unit, unable to lift a finger against such unholy resistance. The buglers cry for retreat, their trumpets bleating like sheep against a now triumphant imperial war horn.

Falcon knights descend after the Ashen Demon, following the path she had cut. Lost in a million of her own thoughts, Leonie loses focus. Comrades fight and die as lances pierce their steeds or hearts. Infantry wails in pain and desperation, some throwing themselves against the steady march of the Black Eagles. The emperor casts them aside, and the Ashen Demon cuts them down with her same, stoic face.

She was going to die here, wasn’t she?

“Kid!” A voice shouts. “What are you doing, staring at the enemy army! Didn’t I tell you not to play hero?!”

Judith’s voice breaks breaks Leonie’s trance. She opens her mouth to speak to her, but Judith’s mind had turned.

“Retreat! Now! Don’t spend your lives needlessly!” Judith calls, her voice straining. Officers repeat her order even as falcon knights run them down. Judith’s eyes turn back to Leonie. “Are you going to sit here and accept your fate, or are you going to survive and take it back? Get your troops _ out _ of here and buy them some time!”

Leonie shakes her head violently, gaining a moment of clarity. The sight of her falling friends and militiamen reminds her of her duty. “You heard General Daphnel! Move, get out of here! We have to withdraw!”

“‘Atta girl!” Judith shouts as she begins running forward towards the Emperor’s direction, covering her soldier’s retreat. Leonie turns around from the black knights and back toward her rear. She _ will _ survive, and she _ will _ keep fighting. She nocks an arrow and draws it. “With me, men!” She screams. “Cover our infantry, and kill as many of them as you can!”

The Sauin bow knights rally to her even as the Emperor closes in, ravaging through the front of the Alliance. Leonie and her bow knights charge against the falcon knights, volleys flying. The Adrestians falter against the renewed resistance, but the demon responds in kind. Her sword once again extends, and horses and knights fall from their steeds, mortally wounded. Leonie does not falter. She and the rest of her unit continue the fight, determined to buy as much time as possible.

An opening forms as the falcons retreat back to the sky. Leonie capitalizes on it. Her eyes sight the demon, and she draws an arrow. Her fingers release it as her bow imbues her quarrel with magic. The demon’s head turns, and her eyes meet Leonie’s. The sword extends, and she cuts through the volley, dissipating Leonie’s shot. The demon’s sword rushes to pierce Leonie’s body, but then stops inches away from her chest. Leonie’s life flashes before her eyes until she sees the blade retract.

Her hawk eyes focus. The demon’s face had not aged a day. She bore the same face as she did five years ago, except that she now wore the garb of an imperial officer, black and red covering her jacket. Five years ago, she had a stoic face, yet one that deeply cared about her students, one that spoke to all of them equally regardless of status. Leonie had loved her. Now, the face that stares back at her shows only scorn, a face with eyes full of fire. The demon’s lips part, whispering one word. Leonie could not hear her, but she understood the meaning.

“Retreat, now!” Leonie orders the rest of her bow knights. The professor does not pursue them. Falcon knights circle her position from the air, and she knew her position would be compromised soon. She takes one look back at her former mentor. Her eyes had not changed, her expression still the same. Leonie pulls her horse, and gallops across the rope bridge that led to safety.

Above her and around her, soldiers run for their lives. Archers retreat from the ramparts they once occupied. Knights flee ahead, some staying to cover their slower brethren as the imperial air force continues to harass them.

As the last soldiers dart past her, Leonie takes one last look at the Imperial army, and finds the emperor at its head. Her expression was unreadable. Was it disdain, indifference, or hidden sorrow? Their eyes meet for but a second, blinking once, until Leonie spurs her horse and retreats at last. The Imperials do not pursue, the grinding sound of plate against cobblestone fading as she rides away. The Imperial war horn blares one final time, announcing their victory.

She rides, and rides. The adrenaline, the resolve, they fade. The determination and fighting for one’s home, all that meant nothing to her. All her feelings of insecurity, of uncertainty, return as her mind fixates on Byleth. It aches her brain, it aches her heart. How should she feel? Elated that she’s back, that Jeralt’s legacy still existed? Vengeful, that she had slain so many of her men so easily? Horrified that she still possessed such inhuman strength? She wants to cry, just to cry and cry and cry. The war didn’t matter.

She only stops once she sees a loose, temporary camp at a crossroad. She recognizes it, as the road forks north toward Gloucester and east toward Ordelia. Men sit about, their heads between their knees, defeated. Others hold their wounded arms or legs, groaning in pain as healers run about tending to them. Straggling infantry follow Leonie into the temporary camp, some collapsing from their wounds, others from pure exhaustion. Some may have even deserted.

Judith and Ignatz catch up to her as she arrives. “Leonie…,” Ignatz says quietly, his glasses smudged with dirt but nary a scratch otherwise.

Leonie offers a silent nod. She lacked the energy to speak another word.

“Well…,” Judith starts with a mournful tone, “at least we made it out alive.” Her eyes scan over the sorry state of her army. “Can’t say the same about our men though. We didn’t stand a chance.”

Ignatz stares at the ground. “Not only did Edelgard herself show up to capture the bridge, but also…”

“The Captain’s daughter,” Leonie says under her breath. Where determination once filled her heart, now only uncertainty and turmoil linger.

“Five years since you two’ve last seen her, right?” Judith says with a sigh. “Swore she was dead. Guess the Church was wrong.”

“What do we do now?” Leonie asks. It comes as barely a whisper.

“We can’t fight anymore,” Judith says. “If we take on that army, we’ll just be throwing away our lives. Even if Gloucester could have reached us, we would have thrown more lives in vain. Probably for the better that this ended too quickly for us to call for reinforcements.” She sighs, shaking her head. “We need to inform Duke Riegan, and get the rest of the Alliance united. There won’t be an Alliance soon if we don’t stop them.”

“Still… to think the professor is back after all this time…,” Ignatz says, his voice hushed.

Judith issues orders to her men. They fall deaf on Leonie’s ears. Her thoughts keep going back to Byleth. Why did she return _ now _ of all times, and why did she _ still _ side with Edelgard? Where had she been for five years? What about the promise that she had made with Jeralt? Who… or what, was _ she _ fighting for now?

An arm on her shoulder brings her out of her downward spiral. Ignatz’s kindhearted face looks on with concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “You’ve been brooding there for a few minutes now.”

She blinks twice. Had it been that long? “Actually,” she says, “can I talk to you? Away from the rest of the camp.”

Ignatz nods. “I think I know what this is about. Let’s go.”

The two take a few steps away from the Alliance camp, sitting down on a hill overlooking the fertile grassland. The fresh winter breeze did nothing to improve her mood. She stares at the sky, no longer having any answers. She wonders how the rest of the Alliance would take the news of Byleth’s return. Would they defect? Would her friends defect as well? Or would they end up having to fight and kill one another. Just the thought made her stomach churn.

“You’re thinking about the professor, aren’t you?” Ignatz asks first, breaking the silence.

Leonie pauses, alarmed at how easily he can read her. “Yes.”

“She was attacking your unit head-on, I’m sure you must’ve seen her.”

“Yeah,” Leonie mumbles. The burning fire of those emerald eyes haunts her thoughts. “She… hadn’t changed one bit. We’ve all grown over these past five years but… it looked like she was still the same as ever. Like she hadn’t aged a day.”

“She _ did _receive the goddess’s blessing,” Ignatz says. “Maybe that’s why.”

“Maybe,” Leonie says. “I just don’t know how to feel anymore about all this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… I guess I’ll ask you then. Why are you out here fighting?”

“Why am _ I_?” Ignatz asks. “Well… you know I never wanted to be a knight, or an officer for that matter. I really enjoy art, but my dad wanted to see me become a warrior since my brother is inheriting our business.” Ignatz turns to face the sun, now beginning its descent below the horizon. “I don’t really have a reason to be fighting other than the fact that I want to protect Leicester. They’re invading our home, and I want to protect it.”

Leonie nods. “That's why I started fighting, too.”

“Given your connection with the professor… I can only imagine that fighting her is much more difficult on you than it is for me. I… guess I would try to divorce the thought that she used to be our mentor. If I think of her as just any other soldier? It might make me more comfortable facing her.”

“It’s… not so easy for me.”

“When it comes to war, I think what’s most important is to fight for what _ you _believe in, Leonie,” Ignatz says. “If you aren’t fighting for something or someone, then why are you fighting?”

“I…” Her mind drifts first to her village, but then it shifts to Jeralt and the promise she made with him. The two sides battle it out in her mind, filling her with anxiety. “For my village,” she manages to say, but the words do not sit right with her.

“And I’m fighting for my family as well,” he says. “The Empire… they may have some of our old friends, but we have to put aside those thoughts now. They’re now invading the Leicester Alliance, and we have to defend it. That’s how I see it.”

Leonie nods, understanding Ignatz’s conviction. “Do you mind if you leave me alone for a bit? Call for me when we need to leave.”

“I will. I hope you find your peace of mind, Leonie.”

“Thank you, Ignatz.” She replies, watching her classmate step through the tall grass back to the camp. She sits, then lies flat on the soil and grass after he’s out of sight and heaves a huge sigh.

What _ was _ she fighting for, she wonders. Her village was the natural thing to think, yet Jeralt and Byleth dominate her thoughts. Was it fear of her own life, or was it something else? If she does the unthinkable, and switches sides to the Empire, would she feel better? Her thoughts flit to and fro. A terrible headache wells behind her eyes thinking about all this. Either she stands with her homeland and faces her anxieties every time she fights, or she defects to the Empire and has to fight against her former friends.

One thing she knows for certain: she wanted this war to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might recall that Leonie was one of the ghosts that Byleth envisioned on her return to Garreg Mach. After her death, she retreated back to the Alliance, refusing to follow Edelgard without Byleth to guide her. Now we see Leonie fighting for the Alliance, but ultimately floundering upon realizing that she is alive. 
> 
> What's Leonie to do now that Byleth has returned? Continue to fight alongside the Alliance against her mentor's progeny, or abandon her home and follow the promise she made to Jeralt? And how will Byleth herself react, having very nearly killed her first student on the fields of battle?
> 
> AN: We've renamed this particular work and moved it into a series bearing the original name; both of us have realized that there is too much content for us to cover in a single fic, so we're splitting it up into a true series for easier management.


	6. A Mercenary's Creed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonie ponders her next move after Myrddin.

_ Day 17 of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Early Evening _  
_ Derdriu _

The hooves of two horses beat against the road into Derdriu. Atop them, the Leicester commanders from the Myrddin defense army ride side-by-side, their faces solemn and moored in defeat. Judith rides alone; Ignatz holds onto Leonie’s waist for his life. They had set off from their camp ahead of the rest of their army, intent on reporting the fall of the Great Bridge to the de-facto leader of the Alliance, Claude von Riegan.

As they pass through the gates of the city, Derdriu bustles around them, and their horses slow from a steady gallop to a trot. Leonie’s eyes flit about the streets. Craftsmen, merchants, and sailors mingle amongst one another in commerce. Commoners wander about in tight crowds, though parting like water before their horses. She focuses on a few of their faces as they look up at her. They look back with wonder at the presence of soldiers among them, a rare sight even in wartime. Leonie, however, can see nothing but an intangible disdain.

The estate of House Riegan rises like a shimmering beacon from the center of the city. Its bright yellow walls glisten in the setting sun, and white curtains decorate its great glass windows. Tightly manicured grass rises from the earth around the cobblestone walkways through the estate. Judith guides the trio to the estate’s stables on the eastern side.

Ignatz is the first to dismount, clamoring about how he was counting the moments until their arrival. Ignoring his remarks, Judith dismounts and stables her horse before walking briskly to the manor’s entrance. Leonie follows behind.

Inside, crystalline chandeliers hang from the manor’s vaulted ceiling overhead. The great glass windows illuminate the foyer in natural light even during sunset, bathing everything inside with an orange glow. Handmaidens and servants hustle about the estate on official business, up and down the central staircase and through the halls to the interior rooms. One handmaiden notices the trio as the group’s eyes wander aimlessly, searching for any unoccupied servants like herself. “Oh!” she says. “Madam Daphnel, it’s good to see you again!”

Judith approaches the handmaiden. “Sorry to be blunt, but have you seen the boy?”

She blinks twice. “The… boy?”

Judith rolls her eyes in frustration. “Yes, the boy. Claude. Duke Riegan.”

“Oh! I’m afraid that he’s not here presently.”

“He’s  _ what?! _ ” Judith shouts. The chandeliers rattle above their heads.

The handmaiden reels away. “Y-Yes,” she stammers. “He left not two days ago on an emergency trip to visit House Goneril. Something about special business at Fódlan’s Throat? Said that he would return in three days’ time along with General Goneril and his sister.”

Judith grits her teeth and growls. “Dammit all. One misfortune after another.”

Ignatz rubs his chin. “Could we fly to Goneril to tell him the news?”

Judith sighs. “By the time we arrived at House Goneril and told him, then came back to Derdriu? It would already be tomorrow, at best.” She turns back to her junior commanders and offers each a pat on the shoulder. “Both of you deserve a good night’s rest after all that’s happened. Handmaiden!”

The young woman stands at attention. “Yes, Miss Daphnel?”

“Arrange for a few guestrooms, would you?”

“Yes, of course!” She bows and scurries away.

Judith pinches the bridge of her nose. “How frustrating,” she mutters. “He  _ knew _ that the Imperial army was on our doorstep. Why would he just get up and leave?”

“Judith, it’s Claude,” Ignatz says, adjusting his glasses. “I doubt he would leave like this unless he had good reason to. I’d bet he has something planned, some kind of ace up his sleeve.”

“You’re probably right,” Judith replies. “I should learn to trust him more often. The kid does have a knack for trump cards. Either way.” She lets out a long sigh. “I’ll take care of the debriefing. You kids have seen enough of war for the next few days. If Claude has need of either of you for a counteroffensive, I’m sure he’ll summon for you personally.”

Ignatz stretches his arms. “I’m not sure about either of you, but travel makes me hungry. Especially horseback. I’m gonna check out the dining hall.”

“Don’t overstay your welcome.”

“I won’t, I promise!” he calls as he walks away, not bothering to turn around.

Leonie stares at the floor silently. Judith takes note. “Leonie,” she says. “Everything okay?”

Her eyes stare onward, past the floor to the void. “Yeah,” she says with a vacant nod. “I think so, at least. Could be better, I guess.”

“You sure don’t sound confident,” Judith remarks. “Something about the last battle on your mind? I know a lot of your unit fell victim to the Emperor and that Demon. That can’t have been a pretty sight.”

Brief moments from the battle flash in front of her eyes. She could not remember most of it, nor did she want to. She rubs her head with a frown, dejected. “I try not to think about it,” she whispers. “Some of those soldiers were from Sauin. I’d known them since I was a kid. I’d think you, of all people, can understand that kind of sorrow, Judith.”

“I do. I know what it’s like to watch friends die in front of you. There’s nothing more heartbreaking, especially those who feel the need to die  _ for _ you.” Judith holds each of Leonie’s shoulders, keeping the two of them at arms’ length. “It’s your duty as an officer, as their leader, to keep going in their stead, when they no longer have the heart to do it themselves. You know that, right?”

Leonie nods. “I remember that well from our time at the Academy. Before that, even. That was one of the things Captain Jeralt taught me.”

“I’ve heard that name before,” Judith muses. “You seem quite fond of the man.”

“He was…,” Leonie continues. “There’s too much to say about him, honestly. He’s why I am where I am. He was the one who always pushed me to keep going, the one who inspired me to become a mercenary and a commander. Taught me the value of honor, creed, all that stuff.”

Judith offers a warm smile and the eyes to match. “I’m sure he’d be very proud of you, Leonie. I said this earlier, but it bears repeating. You did good work out there yesterday. I know your soldiers are all proud of you, too. ‘Sides, you saved many of them. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Thanks, Judith,” Leonie replies flatly. She feels like she should cry, but instead she only feels numb.

“I think I should turn in early,” Judith says with a yawn, rolling her shoulders and neck around in circles. “Too much stress on my shoulders, and tomorrow will be busy enough trying to track down that boy. You’ll find a few guest rooms on the third floor. Pick whichever you like, don’t sweat the details. If anyone complains, just say you’re here as my guest.”

Judith starts off toward the upper levels to claim a room for herself, leaving Leonie alone with her thoughts. She can’t suppress the memories, nor the lingering questions she still had. She mentioned Jeralt’s teachings earlier, of honor and creed. Somehow, even five years later, she could remember what she had last said to Byleth, on the eve before they marched to war against the Church.

_ “I’m on your side, no matter what. I promised him I’d support you, and that’s what I plan to do.” _

Her judgment lapses for a moment. “Hey, Judith,” she calls out to the general.

The woman turns from midway up the central staircase. “Something the matter, Leonie?”

“No,” Leonie says. “I think I just need to go out for a drink.”

“Are you asking me for company?” Judith asks. “I’m afraid I’m too old for tavern crawls, you know.”

“Sorry,” she continues, rubbing the back of her head. “I’m not really thinking too straight. I actually think I need to be alone for now. Sleep well.”

“Enjoy yourself, Leonie. And come back in one piece. This army needs soldiers like you.”

* * *

_ Day 17 of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Late Evening _  
_ Derdriu _

Leonie wanders through the streets of Derdriu alone, the soles of her boots clacking against the cobblestone. Commoners like herself bustle about, paying her little mind aside from the stray overzealous drunken man whistling in her direction. A simple glare is more than sufficient to silence them. In some small part, she’s grateful for the occasional distraction from the thoughts still lingering in her mind.

Myrddin burns in her memory. The orders she barked to hold back the advancing Imperial army. The lightning scorching through the pavement, the sound of thunder rolling across the battlefield, the scent of smoldering flesh. The panic that ensued as Alliance soldiers began to rout. How she could not bring herself to retreat, not when she needed to save her brothers-in-arms. The faceless knights bearing the banner of the Black Eagle. The face of the Emperor’s scorn as she decimated any soldier who dared to stand in her path.

But one face stands out among the rest: Her face, the Captain’s daughter. She shivers, remembering the fire in her eyes, the tightness in her chest when she resigned herself to death. Now was not the time to remember, not yet. 

She spots a familiar tavern nearby, its sign hanging from a post planted above the entrance:  _ The White Raven _ . Its door hangs ajar. Inside, a fiddleman plays a somber melody just a quarter step out of tune. The scent of freshly-poured whiskey hangs pungent in the air, seeping through the open doorway. Such an odor normally would repulse her, but in her current state, it coaxes her inside like a moth to flame. Wandering into the tavern, she finds it strangely empty. One of many open seats at the bar welcomes her with open arms.

The barkeep, a grossly rotund man with a scraggly, three-day-old beard, tosses her a cork coaster as she claims her seat. He chomps on a cigar while pouring her a glass of water. “Ain’t often we get a lovely young lady like yerself in here, Miss Pinelli,” he says. “‘Specially on a quiet night like this one. Must be a rough time.”

She lays her elbows on the countertop, arms folded over one another. “You could say that, Gregori,” she says while untying her hair. The bright orange locks fall just past her collar, only long enough for her to pull them together and re-tie them. “Definitely been better, that’s for sure. Gimme a glass of whatever whiskey’s strongest. No rocks.”

Gregori cocks one eyebrow, twisting his lips, speculative of her choice of drink. “Sounds like a day ye’d like to forget. I won’t pester ye about it, then.” He hobbles away, reaching for a fresh glass and thinking on which liquor would best suit her tonight.

Leonie ignores the glass of water in front of her. Her eyes flit about softly across the countertop’s varnish, not lingering on any one detail for long. More flashbacks from Myrddin play in her mind’s eye in fast forward, racing through each one trying to make sense of it all.  _ She came back _ , she says to herself.  _ She came back, and still she chose Edelgard. She chose to fight again, to finish her job. Guess she picked that up from the captain after all. _

Byleth had stood before her after five long years. Had she just been missing all this time? Laying low, trying to stay hidden?  _ That’s the only logical explanation, _ Leonie tells herself. But then why resurface now? Why wouldn't Edelgard have just trampled over everyone, captured Rhea, and called it a day?

Every answer she formulates only leads to more questions. Who even was she? Did the Goddess really bless her, of all people?  _ What _ was she?

Gregori plops Leonie's drink on the coaster in front of her. She squeaks at the sound. "As ye ordered, Miss Pinelli," he mumbles before hobbling away.

Leonie pulls the short glass to her lips. Even with at most an ounce in front of her, the stench of alcohol floods her nostrils, forcing a retch out of her. She takes a moment to regain her composure -- and to summon her bravery -- before tossing the glass back and downing the contents all at once. The whiskey slides down her throat smoothly, yet it leaves a burning aftertaste on her tongue in its wake. She retches almost instantly.  _ How in the hell did Captain Jeralt like this stuff? _

"Water, Miss Pinelli," Gregori calls from his stool in the corner. "Yeesh, ask for the strongest stuff and it makes ye seem like a virgin!"

Caught in a fit of coughing, she searches blindly with a sprawling hand for the water he'd left for her. She finds the edge of the glass finally… but it tumbles over to one side, spilling its contents over the countertop.

Gregori rushes over as quickly as he can, picking up a dishrag on his way. "Aye aye aye, what in blazes has gotten into ye?" He slaps the rag onto the countertop, mopping up what fluids he can.

Leonie’s coughing slows. “Sorry,” she croaks, “Just a little  _ too _ strong, I think.”

After wringing the dishrag dry and hanging it from his sink, Gregori prepares another helping of water. “Shit’s a four-distill, I’d sure hope it’s strong!” he roars with laughter. He bats the last of his cigar away, squelches the smoldering ashes against a charred slab of wood, and tosses the remnants into a rubbish bin. Pulling his stool back over to the bar proper, he takes a seat in front of Leonie. “Drink up, lil’ one,” he orders, presenting the tall glass to her. “Can’t have the Alliance’s finest wakin’ up in the mornin’ with a beast of a hangover!”

Leonie grabs the glass with her eyes open this time and quickly takes a drink to soothe her burning throat. Her breathing slows back to its regular rhythm. “Think I’d rather the hangover than the pit in my stomach right now,” she says with a sniff. “Gimme another glass of that stuff. I can still think straight.”

Gregori frowns. “As much as I’d love to take more of yer coin, I’m gonna have to say no.”

“What? I’ll pay you double what it’s worth, just give me another!”

Gregori shakes his head.

Leonie’s temper flares. “Gregori!” she barks. “Give me the damn drink!”

“And that lil’ outburst is exactly why I can’t.”

She hangs her head in defeat before beating her fist against the countertop. A tear drops from her cheeks. “Gregori,” she whispers. “You’re pretty wise… what would you do if you had to kill a friend?”

“Kill a friend? What in the hell kinda question is that?”

“Just answer it.”

“Ye mean like puttin’ down an ol’ dog? I’ve had to do that before.”

Leonie shakes her head. “No, Gregori. A person.” Byleth’s face flashes in front of her eyes again. The sight of the battlefield floods her vision. The extending whip of the Sword of the Creator, blazing with sacred power as it rockets toward her chest. The way it stopped mere moments from piercing her flesh. The motions of its wielder’s lips, begging her to run. “A person very close to you, who you swore to protect.”

“Well, if ye swore to protect ‘em, why are ye tryin’ to kill ‘em?”

A low sigh passes her lips. “Cause she fights on the other side.” She grits her teeth at the thought. “For the Empire.”

“I see,” he says. He reaches under his counter for a fresh glass for himself, as well as his own stash of liquor to pour himself a drink. Like Leonie, he downs the glass in one go, but he handles it much more elegantly. “Miss Pinelli,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “do ye think us commoners can relate to this nobles’ war?”

She runs her finger over the rim of her glass, lost in her own thoughts.

“Yer no noblewoman yerself,” Gregori continues. “Surely ye understand how nonsense this war feels to us.”

“Is it nonsense to fight for our homeland?” she asks.

“Yer doin’ that outta need, not outta want.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“What I’m tryin’ to say is… ye’ve never had a true stake in this war, have ye? Ye don’t have any o’ that fake patriotic shit to uphold like these snoody nobles in their high castles. All ye’ve ever cared for is to keep people like me safe. And I know ye. Ye’ll make sure ye can do that no matter what else happens. So long as ye can do that, what’s it matter which noble’s banner ye ride under?”

“But the Empire…”

He reaches across the bar. His plump fingers grace her shoulder, interrupting her. “Do ye trust this person? The one ye swore to protect?”

Tears well in her eyes. She nods. “With my life, Gregori.”

“And do ye still want to protect ‘em?”

She nods again.

His lips curl into a smile. “Then ye’ve already decided, haven’t ye? Whatcha need a blitherin’ old man like me for to tell ye to follow ‘em?”

Her eyes fall to her glass, half-filled with water. The weight on her heart slowly lifts, replaced by a calm emptiness that had been a stranger to her for years. Her giggles catch Gregori off-guard. “You’re right, Gregori,” she mutters. “I guess I just… needed someone to tell me that I was making the right choice.”

“Only ye can know what the right choice is, Miss Pinelli.” Gregori starts to pour himself another drink. He downs that one in a single swig, as well. “Don’t let anyone tell ye otherwise.”

She tosses back the rest of her water. The whiskey from earlier still burns in her stomach, but she pays it little mind. She produces a few coins from her satchel and leaves them on the counter, at least double the actual cost of the alcohol. “Keep the change, Gregori,” she says. “And um… thanks for everything. I don’t guess I’ll see you again for a long time.”

He bares his teeth - what few of them remain, at least - in a grin. “If ye come back to Derdriu, even with them Imperials, promise me ye’ll pay me a visit.”

She gives a curt nod. “I’ll be certain to. And I’ll bring someone very special to me.”

* * *

_ Day 18 of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Derdriu _

“So, Myrddin has fallen, then?” Claude sits on the edge of his desk, his legs crossed and boots barely gracing the surface of the floor.

“Aye,” Judith affirms. “The Imperial forces proved far stronger than we anticipated.”

“You couldn’t even call for reinforcements from Gloucester?” Claude asks, scratching the side of his face near his sideburns with a single digit as he stares at the floor. “I told the count to be ready to ride at a moment’s notice.”

“There was no time,” Judith continues. “Even if they showed up, it wouldn’t have mattered, only would have increased the bloodshed.” Her shoulders fall in defeat. “There was one variable we didn’t account for. I’m not sure if my scouts simply missed it or didn’t report on it.”

Claude lifts his head. “Well? It’s not like you to withhold information, Judith.”

“The Emperor was not the only worrying unit in their ranks. She had another, equally terrifying soldier in her guard.” She pauses for a moment, pondering her phrasing. “The kids recognized her.”

Claude’s eyes widen, but quickly turn inquisitive. He makes motions with his hands illustrating a woman’s figure and long hair.

Judith sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yes, Claude. The professor, the one who vanished at Garreg Mach five years ago.”

“Curious,” he remarks. “I could have sworn she died all those years ago. That’s what the Empire and the Church both officially reported, at least.”

“Regardless of whatever the Church said, I’d trust the kids. I sure didn’t recognize her. I’m just going off what I told you.”

“Mint green hair, too?”

Judith nods. “And the sword she wielded wasn’t natural. It glowed like a Hero’s Relic, but not like any I’d seen before.”

“Definitely her, then.” Claude rises from his perch on the desk and paces back and forth in front of it. “Well, that throws a foil into our plans. It’ll be hard to stop them from marching on Derdriu before month’s end.”

“What of your letter to Fhirdiad?” Judith asks.

“No response yet,” he answers with a shrug. “Dunno if the King is just denying any request for aid or the message was lost somewhere. Or maybe he’s just not responding and will show up anyways. I’ve got a plan just in case he doesn’t follow through, but I don’t know how quickly I can mobilize it. And I’d rather not, if I don’t have to resort to that.”

A smirk crawls across Judith’s face. She kicks one hip out and holds the corresponding hand against it. “You mean the Almyrans, right?”

Claude’s brow arches, but he cannot stifle a chuckle for long. “Am I that transparent?” he asks with a wink.

“When I heard you were headed for Fódlan’s Throat? It was easy enough to figure out, boy.”

“Fair enough,” he says, and they share an unceremonious laugh together. “Regardless, I’ll arrange for another message to Fhirdiad. I’d rather cover all the angles.” He takes a moment to think about what else they needed to cover. A terrible pit in his stomach told him he already knew the Empire’s next target. “Do you happen to have any intelligence on where the Empire is headed next?” he asks.

“None,” Judith answers. “We didn’t bother sending out any spies during our retreat, and even if we did, they wouldn’t have gotten back to us yet.”

“I didn’t think as much, but I have a hunch: I don’t think we should expect Lord Ordelia to attend the Roundtable meeting tomorrow.”

“You’ve been suspicious of them for a while. You think the Empire will push into their territory next?”

“I do.” Claude nods and stops his brainstorm pacing. “Lysithea fought alongside Edelgard at Garreg Mach. I would be… surprised if she didn’t formally join their cause.”

“What’s our next move then?”

“We wait, unfortunately,” Claude says, rubbing at his forehead with the heels of his palms. “The Roundtable will need to come to a decision on its own given the evidence. We’ll still have Edmund and Goneril with us, no matter what, but I believe Gloucester might be the next target after Ordelia. They’ve always been… sympathetic to Imperial issues.” He looks up, his eyes alight with inspiration. “We may be able to use them to our advantage. For now, I’ll need you to be my messenger to Faerghus. Understood?”

Judith blinks rapidly. “Me?”

Claude rests a hand on her shoulder. “I need to know that this message is arriving safely,” he continues. “I can’t have any more doubts about it, even if that means taking you off the front lines for a few days. But the land the Empire is marching through now? Mostly farmland. Not much fighting for them to do.”

Judith opens her mouth to protest, but the determination in Claude’s eyes breaks her will. “Understood,” she says, exasperated. “What message should I give the King?”

“Make sure he knows that Myrddin has fallen. And tell him Teach is back, and that she’s fighting for Edelgard. That should be enough to stir his bones.” Claude releases his grip on her shoulder and shoos her away. “Now, go. Take a pegasus from the stables, and book it for Fhirdiad. You’re dismissed.”

Claude escorts Judith to the entrance to his office. As it opens, an unexpected face stands outside, her fist just about to knock against the door.

“...Captain?” Judith asks. “What are you doing here?”

Leonie holds one hand behind her back, fumbling a sealed envelope about in her fingers. “Oh, um. Hello, General. I guess I have good timing.”

“Good to see you, Leonie,” Claude says, leaning against the door frame. “Did you need something?”

“I was actually hoping we could chat, Claude,” she says, twirling the envelope between her fingers behind her back. “Got a minute? It’s important.”

He tilts his head. “Well, Judith was just on her way out, and I don’t have anything else booked for the day. I don’t see why I can’t spare a bit of time for you.”

Leonie and Judith pass each other by, acknowledging one another as Judith departs on her official business. The door shuts with a thud behind Leonie, leaving only herself and the duke in the office. Claude returns to his perch on the edge of his desk. “So, Leonie, what’s on your mind?”

She paces around the office. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been inside it. “I’ve… been thinking a lot since the battle at Myrddin,” she says as she wanders about, her eyes never resting on any one location for too long.

“Judith told me all about it. I heard Teach was there.” Claude finally grabs her attention. Her mouth hangs ajar in wonder, and she wonders if he somehow already knows why she’s here, despite her not saying a word of it to anyone but Gregori. “I’m sure that must have really shaken you up,” he continues.

A weight lifts from her shoulders only to be replaced by another, far heavier one. “You could say that, yeah,” she says, pausing for a moment. Her gaze wanders back to the side, dejected. “Do you remember why I followed her at Garreg Mach? Why I fought alongside her against the Church?”

“I do,” Claude says softly. “I remember you talking a lot about the former Captain of the Knights of Seiros, too. Jeralt, right? He was around a lot when Teach first showed up at the monastery. Always seemed like a really nice guy.”

Leonie’s lips curl into a warm smile, one that betrays the pre-emptive grieving in her heart. “He taught me to always follow my heart, and to always fight for something -- or someone -- that I believed in.” She pauses again, taking a deep breath. She approaches Claude.. “Taught me how important it was to honor my promises.”

She produces the letter from behind her back and places it in his hands. He looks at the wax seal, then back at Leonie as he breaks it. He reads over the letter slowly.

Leonie does not wait for him. She stands up straight. “I’m announcing my resignation from my post, milord.” Formalities were never her strong suit, but they feel strangely appropriate to her right now.Her voice starts to crack and break. “I can’t fight under the Alliance banner anymore.”

A silence lingers between them as Claude finishes reading the letter. As he finishes, he folds the parchment back into thirds and sets it on his desk. “I see,” he says. He matches her gaze. His eyes burn bright as he studies her. She does her best to match him, furrowing her brow in a facade that she hoped would not expose her weakness. A single budding tear betrays her. “So,” Claude continues, content with his analysis, “you’re off to follow Teach, huh?”

Leonie nods. The budding tears stream from her eyes despite her prior determined expression. “I’m sorry, Claude,” she whispers to mask the breaking of her voice. “I wish that it didn’t have to be this way.”

“Don’t be,” he says. He stands from his seat, not more than a few centimeters taller than her, and moves to her side as they face opposite directions. “It’s like you said. You need to follow your heart. And if your heart is telling you to go fight for her, then I can’t stand in the way of that.”

“Will we…” She turns to look at him again. “Will we have to fight against each other?”

Claude snickers and jabs her arm. “Maybe,” he answers. “I sure hope we don’t. You were always a better shot than I was.”

She doesn’t want to giggle right now, but she can’t stifle it. “Don’t flatter me right now, Claude. You know your marks in archery were always higher.”

“Only ‘cause I knew how to sweet-talk Manuela,” he says with a wink. He places a hand on her shoulder. “Leonie, I’m proud of you. Really. Even if it means we’re fighting against each other, you’re doing what’s best for you. I can’t fault you for that.”

She loses any capacity for words. Her only reaction is to throw her arms around him in an embrace. He returns it, wrapping their bodies together in what might be their first -- and last -- display of friendly affection for one another. They stay like that for a few moments, neither of them sure how long it really lasts.

As they part, he holds a hand on her upper back. “How soon are you leaving?” he asks. “The rest of the Deer’ll be here tomorrow, you know. It’d be a good chance to say goodbye.”

She turns her head away. “I don’t know if I should stay that long. I might second guess myself.”

“I understand,” he mutters. “Well, if you’re gonna get going, then you should get going. It’s almost nightfall. I won’t stop you, and I won’t tell anyone about this until the Roundtable tomorrow. I’ll make sure they all understand, too. You have my word.”

She resists the urge to hug him again. Another round of tears stream from her face; she wipes them away before speaking again. “Thank you, Claude. For everything.”

Before Claude closes the door, and before she can start down the hallway, he calls to her. “One more thing!”

Leonie turns back to face him.

“If you see her,” he says, “send my well-wishes to Lysithea, as well.”

Her face contorts in surprise. “Lysithea? What do you mean?”

“I reckon you’ll see soon enough,” he replies. “Now scram.”

She doesn’t fully understand, but offers a smile and a nod all the same, making sure to dry what tears might still linger in her eyes before she departs the estate.

* * *

_ 19th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Fhirdiad _

The hooves of an Alliance pegasus beat against the earth just outside the walls of Fhirdiad. Judith approaches the main gate still mounted.

A guard approaches her. “State your business!” he declares.

She presents a scroll from the side satchel of her mount. “I come bearing a message for His Majesty from Duke Riegan.”

The guard takes a moment to unroll and inspect the scroll before returning it to Judith. “Very well,” he answers. “Keep that scroll with you, the guards near the castle walls will want to see it as well.”

“I wouldn’t dream of misplacing it,” she says.

She passes through the gates and trots through the capital on the ground. Regulations during wartime had instilled disdain toward allied pegasus knights flying through fortresses without explicit permission, no matter how good the terms between the two nations might be. Though she was sure that an exception would be made for her in this case, Judith did not want to risk relations with the Kingdom in such a dire time.

True to the gate guard’s word, the castle knights bear a similar question for her. The scroll merits a similar response, though they request that she wait for a knight to escort her through the castle to His Majesty.

After a long wait, a tall, dark-skinned woman clad in stark white armor leaves the castle. The sword on her hip radiates with power, its pommel adorned with a blood-red stone and the blade fashioned with lacerating prongs along each edge. She approaches Judith at the staging area. “General Daphnel,” she says, catching her attention. “I understand you’ve a message for His Majesty. Catherine. I’m sure you remember me from Garreg Mach. I’ll be your escort.”

“Thought I recognized your face,” she says. “I do remember seeing you around the monastery some years ago. I thought you were a Knight of Seiros?”

“The Knights of Seiros and the Knights of Faerghus are now one and the same, for all intents and purposes.” She turns her back to the guest, holding one hand on her hip. “I’m afraid there’s no time for small talk. If Claude sent you, it’s gotta be important. Follow me.”

Catherine guides Judith through the long and winding hallways of the Royal Palace. As well traveled as the Leicester General was, she had never laid eyes on its interior before. She tries to take in what sights she can on their way through the castle.

After a final ascent of a number of flights of stairs, they arrive at the entrance to a small chamber. Catherine bows and opens the door for her guest, beckoning her inside.

Two others stand inside the room. One a man with messy blonde hair down to his shoulders, clad in ceremonious jet-black armor and his back covered with a brilliant blue fur cape. One a woman in a flowing white dress, her shimmering green locks falling down to her waist.

“I’ve brought our guest,” Catherine remarks as they enter. “Look alive.”

Judith recognizes both of the figures immediately. She kneels as she approaches them. “Your Majesty,” she says. “And Your Grace.”

Dimitri and Rhea each turn to face her. “General Daphnel of the North,” he replies, folding his arms across his chest. “You may stand. I must admit that I did not expect  _ you _ of all people. To what do I owe the honor?”

She rises to her feet. “I come bearing a message from Duke Riegan for you, Sire.”

His brow arches. “Is this to do with the Great Bridge of Myrddin? We received his message just two days ago.” He turns his back to her again. “We did not think it merited any response as of yet.”

“The Great Bridge has fallen to the Empire, Your Majesty,” she continues. “And they had an ally whom we did not expect.”

Dimitri’s ears perk.

“The lost professor of Garreg Mach. Byleth was with her, Your Majesty.”

The rage in him wells.

Rhea’s face twists. “So, she has shown herself,” she says. “Sooner than I expected.”

“Your Majesty,” Judith continues, “Duke Riegan requests your aid in defending Derdriu as soon as you are able. The Empire will be knocking on our doorstep within the month.”

Dimitri curls his fist. “Catherine,” he snarls. “I trust our forces are ready?”

“Yes, Sire,” Catherine replies. “We’ll need time to fully mobilize, but can be ready to march in a matter of days.”

“Excellent,” Dimitri says. “Then we will need a week to prepare and arrive in Derdriu, at most.”

Judith turns her head back and forth in disbelief. “Excuse me,” she states. “What do you mean ‘sooner than expected’? Did you  _ know _ that she was alive?!”

“Yes,” Rhea answers. “We have known for weeks.”

Judith clenches her fists. The audible scrapes of enamel against itself creak from her jaw. “And you didn’t think to tell us?!”

Rhea approaches Judith, hands held together just above her navel even as she walks. Her brow furrows. “You did not need to know,” she states.

“Tell that to my men who died at Myrddin!” Judith barks. “Ask  _ them  _ if they did not need t-”

Rhea’s palm meets her cheek, interrupting and silencing her. “Do not presume to know what is best for the Church,” she barks. “ _ I _ decided that her rebirth must be hidden, in spite of the blood that she would spill on the goddess’s soil. You will have no place in judging the righteousness of my actions.”

Judith brushes at her cheek. She opts not to respond to the Archbishop. “So be it. King Dimitri, can Leicester expect your aid?”

Dimitri stands silent. His mind wanders across the possibilities. What stirred Edelgard to strike so quickly? Lady Rhea had anticipated another month or so before the Empire could be fully prepared. Perhaps he had underestimated how capable and resourceful Byleth’s influence could be.

Catherine breaks the silence. “Give the order, and I’ll start mobilizing.”

“General Daphnel,” Dimitri says. “You said Edelgard will be there?”

Judith begins to understand the King’s motivations. “Yes,” she says. “She will be there.”

His eyes narrow. The opportunity would be golden. Kill the witch and subdue the traitor in a single fell swoop. Fate had a hand in this, he was certain of it.

“Catherine,” he says, finally. “Sharpen my father’s lance. We have a witch to hunt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick-ish appearing resolution to Leonie's core hang-ups about Byleth and the war, but she's obviously not loyal to any one side. That might come back to bite her.
> 
> Dimitri and Rhea finally begin to mobilize, and it's time for the Kingdom to start making their entry into the war.
> 
> Leave a comment if you like where this is going! By this point it should be apparent that this is not the same story as Crimson Flower, using it purely as a base. Biggest question at this point is how the Kingdom is going to play into the eventual assault on Derdriu.


	7. Vows of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard takes time with Byleth to reflect on the conquest of Myrddin and what both the war and her Captain mean to her. Later, Lysithea arrives at the Imperial camp, and the Empire sets the stage for their continued push toward Derdriu.

_ Day 19 of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Myrddin _

“Is this the last one?” Byleth asks.

“Yes, it is,” Edelgard replies. She places a bouquet on the shallow grave, the last in a long field of dead bodies. She lingers for some time, paying silent respects before standing. Perhaps she could have muttered a prayer, but she didn’t think it appropriate given the circumstances.

She looks up to the sky. The cold breeze blows against her face. Fluffy, white clouds replace yesterday’s gray sky. The plains bathe in fresh sunlight, and the birds chirp about in the field. On any other day, one might regard it as peaceful, even idyllic. But the graves of the buried dead cast a pall over the meadow.

“They fought well,” Byleth says.

Despite their intent, those words ring hollow. These men fought in vain for some cause they may not have known. Lives cut short. Friendships destroyed. Such was war, she tells herself, a burden and responsibility that she alone bears. “They did,” she replies. “I can only hope that we minimize the casualties of this conflict as much as possible.”

Byleth’s hand brushes against Edelgard. “That’s our goal isn’t it?” she asks.

For a brief moment, Edelgard’s hand reaches back, but she catches herself. She shakes her head, tossing the emotion back into the void. “You saw them, didn’t you?” Edelgard asks, remembering the scorn that Leonie had given her before fleeing Myrddin. “The former Deer, I mean.”

“I did,” Byleth answers. Calmly, as ever. Just like she always is.

“How do you feel?”

Byleth frowns. “What kind of answer do I give?”

“The answer that your heart tells you, Byleth,” Edelgard replies. She remembers the stricken face that her Captain had borne the night before the battle. The pain, the confusion, the anxiety, all wrought upon her face. “I’m not your student anymore, nor am I asking as your emperor, but as your friend.”

Byleth sighs, her eyes glance away from Edelgard’s. Her composure breaks. “I… don’t know,” she whispers. “I don’t like it. I was raised to be a mercenary. I’m no stranger to death on the battlefield, and yet… fighting my former students feels so terribly wrong.”

“I feel the same,” Edelgard says. “But such is war.”

She hides behind a familiar mask: strong, confident, unwavering in her ideals. Yet no matter how much she reiterates those ideals, her own mind stirs in turmoil. She speaks with certainty, yet her mind feels regret. The trauma, the responsibilities, the immoral deeds, the blood on her hands, they follow her everywhere she goes. The ghosts circle around in her mind like wolves hunting prey. Was her war truly as righteous as she claims it to be?

“So it is,” Byleth says, shaking her head. She stares vacantly at the earth before giving a sheepish smile. “This is just the first of many battles to come, isn’t it Edelgard?”

Edelgard nods. “Come, will you walk with me?”

“Of course.”

Edelgard could only vaguely remember traveling to Leicester territory a few times in her life. Not quite as cold as Faerghus, but not quite as warm as Adrestia. The fields appear green, but mud sticks to their boots as they walk across the verdant meadow. Snow might have fallen perhaps a week ago, or a week more than that. She loved the breeze most, the gentle wind flowing through her hair, through her fingers as if cleansing her of all her sins. She glances sideways to Byleth, who has kept pace alongside her. She had not spoken a word, yet her face appears content. Edelgard didn’t mind the silence, perhaps their first real chance to enjoy such in the past few weeks.

“Why don’t we sit there?” Byleth asks, pointing to a black poplar tree. The soil appears sturdy enough to support them and not have mud soak their armor or pants.

“Yes, I think this will do,” Edelgard replies, taking her seat first underneath the shade. Byleth claims a spot next to her. Her heartbeat quickens.

“It’s nice out today, isn’t it?” Byleth asks, beaming. Her silly smile draws in Edelgard’s eyes. A familiar warmth rises in her belly; she remembers the first time she felt it, the same moment that Byleth had smiled at her.

“It really is,” Edelgard responds, her voice meek at best. Something about this woman always made her timid, unsure how to speak, unsure how to act.

Byleth’s hair whips about in the breeze. She turns to face Edelgard. “Did you have any days like this when you were back in Enbarr, Edelgard?”

Edelgard sighs, a twinge of annoyance filling her. “What kind of question is that? Every step of the way it always feels like there’s some sort of setback waiting for me. The nobility are always such a handful. Between everything I must do to ensure their cooperation, and the worries that they may betray me at any moment, I rarely had time to myself.”

Byleth gives her a meek smile. “Sorry… I misspoke. I’m not the best with words.”

“I forgive you,” she replies, regretting her outburst. “I didn’t mean to say so much.”

Byleth places a finger to her cheek. “It’s just…I remembered something you told me.”

“Oh? What might that be?”

“Just that, one day, you and I could know the joys of idling together.””

Edelgard’s face flushes red. She turns away, hiding her face. Why did Byleth always find ways to make her like this? “W-Well… I do suppose that you’re right.”

“I guess we don’t have the sweets for you to gorge on though, like you wanted.”

“I… think I’ll be fine for today,” Edelgard says, sweating. How could she say things like this so flippantly?

Byleth blinks. “Did I say something that bothered you? You’re awfully quiet now.”

“No… no.” Edelgard shakes her head, attempting to toss her emotions away again. “I’m fine, thank you.” She turns her head away. “It’s just… nice. Lovely, even, to speak with you like this. Just the two of us.”

“Didn’t we have a moment like this just a few nights ago?”

“Yes, but… the circumstances are different.”

Byleth leans back against the tree’s trunk. “Yeah… today does feel different. We paid our respects… and now there isn’t much left to do.”

“Yes. Until House Ordelia’s delegation arrives, we have a moment of reprieve to ourselves.”

“I’m really proud of you, you know?” Byleth says with a twinkle in her voice. “You’ve grown up, and you’re running an empire practically by yourself.”

Edelgard’s face burns.  _ What is this woman saying?! _ “Praise… really isn’t necessary, Byleth. I’m not your student anymore.”

“I’m serious though! You’re as diligent as ever, and you lead your soldiers and people well. I’ve only ever handled my own personal regiment in the mercenary world… but here you are taking control of an entire country. It must’ve been hard to hold the Empire together on your own.”

Somehow, her words cut into Edelgard like knives, leaving voids in her heart and mind. “It was… difficult yes.” Her words spill out. She desperately tries to pull them back, but her cup has already run over. “I spent days looking for you. Weeks. You didn’t make it very easy on me.”

Byleth’s tone grows somber. “You make it sound like I wanted to leave. It’s not like I  _ planned _ to die that day.”

“I wish you hadn’t at all,” she replies mournfully. “It’s been a long, awful five years without your guidance.”

“But you’ve survived, and thrived these five years,” Byleth refutes. “You didn’t need me. You’ve achieved so much, all on your own.”

Spoken like a professor. But Byleth would never know how much her absence had affected her, how it felt to be so  _ oppressively _ alone again. “I suppose I didn’t,” Edelgard responds, her voice vacant. “Still, without you I felt so lost. I didn’t know where to pick up when you died. You left so soon, and…”

Her voice trails off. Her mind drifts to the dark, forbidden corners of her consciousness.  _ What if she dies again?  _ she wonders. _ How could I  _ ** _possibly_ ** _ deal with that again?’ _

Byleth places a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve always been too hard on yourself, Edelgard. Take a step back, and appreciate all the things you’ve accomplished.”

Edelgard sighs. “I suppose you’re right,” she replies half-heartedly. There it was again: that longing to open up. But she could not dare do so, in case she lost Byleth again. Still… perhaps… she could lower her walls ever so slightly. Perhaps she should indulge herself. Her tongue acts before she can think it over again.

“May I... feel your heart again?” Edelgard asks.

Byleth’s eyebrows arch in surprise. “What an odd question,” she says.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to come off as overly sentimental.”

Byleth shakes her head. “It’s alright. You may.”

Edelgard slowly reaches for the same area she had felt a few nights prior and places her hand against the covering cloth. Just like before, she feels no heartbeat. Yet… she does feel something inside her, a pulse of some sort. What kind of magic could Rhea have wrought to remove something as crucial as a heart? Something so familiar, so human, torn away from her.

Edelgard removes her hand. “You’ve said before,” she says after collecting herself, “that you are happy to walk this path alongside me. Do you… still wish to walk with me, after yesterday?”

Byleth’s response is immediate. “Of course.” Her lips turn into a hollow smile.

Edelgard’s heart sinks, discouraged by Byleth’s expression. “This is a difficult road, you know. One that I’ve prepared for all my life. I won’t fault you if you have second thoughts.”

“Edelgard,” Byleth says, “stand up.” The demand catches Edelgard by surprise, but she complies. Byleth follows and pulls their bodies into a sudden embrace. Her strong arms wrap around Edelgard’s waist. The breeze blows gently between what little space lingers between their bodies. In an instant, Edelgard’s burden feels lighter. Her eyes grow heavy, her cheeks burn like hot coals, and her body feels weak and broken in her arms.

“Please don’t doubt the decisions I’ve made,” Byleth mutters, her voice muffled against Edelgard’s shoulder. “I’m with you to the end. Trust me when I say that.”

Tears well in Edelgard’s eyes. Byleth’s words ring in her ears like sweet honey. Her voice quivers as she replies. “Very well. I will put my trust in you.”

She didn’t know what emotions to show anymore, nor what she felt. Gratitude? Relief? Security? All she knew was that she had let her guard down, and that she wanted to feel this way for just a little while longer, even forever. She buries her head against Byleth’s shoulder, the tears beginning to stream. It all felt so foreign.

“We’ll see this through, together,” Byleth whispers.

Edelgard nods. Her emotions ebb away like the end of a high tide. “Thank you, Byleth,” she says.

Byleth pulls back from their embrace. Edelgard blinks, and then takes one final gaze into those glimmering emerald eyes. How best could she describe them? Determined. Caring. Those of both a close friend and a dear mentor. The eyes that she loves most, the face that she loves most, the one who has the smile that she loves the most. When did these feelings for her develop?

“You’re staring at me,” Byleth teases.

“Am I? My apologies. You’re just so…”  _ Supportive. Endearing.  _ ** _Beautiful_ ** _ . _

Byleth looks away with a flush in her cheeks.. Edelgard regrets her choice for only a moment, and then leans back against the tree, content.

Silence falls again as the two settle back to lounging about. Edelgard gazes at the sky, looking at the fluffy cumulus delicately drifting by. She tells herself that one day she will be able to enjoy as many of these days as she likes.

“Hey, Edelgard,” Byleth says, nudging her.

“Mmm?” she mumbles, still daydreaming about happier days: Her childhood, her time at Garreg Mach, and perhaps one day in the future, should she survive.

Byleth sighs. “ _ Your Majesty, _ it seems like someone is looking for us.”

The sound of Byleth using her honorific shocks her, tearing her down from her fantasies. “What did you just say?!” she asks again, still perplexed and unsure if she heard correctly.

“Ashe is over there.” She points over the hill. “And it looks like he’s waving to us. Probably has something important to say.”

Edelgard arches her neck. True to Byleth’s word, silver-haired young man waves and calls their names as he runs up the hill. She stands and dusts herself off. Back to being the Emperor.

“There you are, Your Majesty,” Ashe says, breathless and excited. “I’ve been looking for you, and for the Captain as well.”

“Has House Ordelia returned our message?” Edelgard asks. Her voice shifts back to its usual tone.

“They have,” Ashe replies with his characteristically bright smile. “An escort party arrived at our camp only a few minutes ago. I think there is someone you would like to meet there.”

Edelgard’s eyes glance over to Byleth’s, and the two share a knowing look. “Lead the way,” she continues. “I’m sure that we have much to discuss with her.”

The three set off toward the makeshift Imperial war camp. They pass by the field where they had buried those that had perished at Myrddin. The despair that once lingered has dissipated. The walk goes on in silence, though Edelgard finds herself walking closer to Byleth than she did before.

The structure of the camp mirrors the one they had established west of the Airmid River. Rows of tents fill the fields while knights patrol the skies and the grounds around it. A few supply wagons park in the center of the camp, unloading goods for the soldiers before they return back across the bridge. On-duty soldiers salute to both Emperor and Captain as they pass by. Others chat amicably with one another as they enjoy simple meals while on break from their shifts. Edelgard hopes she can maintain such morale as they advance further into Leicester territory.

“Now then, where was she… ah, there she is!” Ashe says, pointing to a tent.

A short woman speaks with a brawny Imperial officer. The flowing violet garb she bears is a new addition, but Edelgard recognizes her bright pink eyes and brilliant white hair from miles away. The two speak animatedly with one another. A contingent of Alliance soldiers stands behind them, wearing tabards of gold emblazoned with the heraldry of House Ordelia.

The man notices their arrival and beckons them over. “Well, well, the ladies have arrived!” Caspar calls to them with his trademark cheeky grin. “Long time no see!”

“Edelgard!” Lysithea responds with a bright smile, but her eyes widen even more when she sees Byleth. “And you, too, Professor! Here I thought you were dead all this time!” She runs up to Byleth excitedly, their difference in height closed over the past five years.

“Told ya,” Caspar says with a satisfied smirk.

“Believe me, I didn’t intend to just drop off the face of the earth for five years,” Byleth says, rubbing the back of her head. “It’s good to see you too, Lysithea.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Lysithea demands with a huff. “You disappear --  _ die _ according to the Church -- and that’s all you can muster? You have much explaining to do, Professor.”

“It’s Captain, now, actually.”

“Professor, Captain, it matters not. You  _ will _ sate my curiosity, got it?”

“Give her a break,” Caspar interrupts, “the Church wasn’t lying.” He glances sideways at Edelgard. “You guys can set up the meeting inside the tent right here, I had it prepared beforehand. I’ll go grab Sylvain and Dorothea.”

“Thank you, Caspar.” Her attention then turns to their guest. “What news do you bring for us, Lysithea?” Edelgard asks, turning her attention to the Ordelian heir.

“A proposal, some information, and perhaps an alliance, if those are items that suit your cause,” Lysithea says with a coy smile.

“Oh, was our victory at Myrddin so convincing?” Edelgard replies.

“Considering you defeated the Hero of Daphnel’s elite troops? I would say that Leicester is reeling, trying to figure out what to do. However.” Lysithea points to Byleth. “It won’t be long before Claude hears that you’re alive -- if he doesn’t know already -- and figures out a plan for how to deal with you. Speed will be our greatest asset.”

“Do you have the support of your father?”

Lysithea nods. “Yes, as well as the rest of our armies. I’ll need two days at most to levy the rest of the troops, but rest assured that you will have all of our strength at your disposal.”

Edelgard silently sighs in relief. Finally, a success in this long war. “That is very encouraging, Lysithea. Thank you for everything you’ve done thus far for our cause.”

“Lysithea!” Dorothea calls as she rushes to hug her. “You’ve gotten so much taller since I’ve last seen you!”

The youngest squeaks as she’s pulled into the embrace. “Please get off me, this is a bit tight!” Lysithea wheezes, exhaling a breath of air as she’s freed.

“Well now, you’ve bloomed like a rose Lysithea,” Sylvain joins. “Wish that I could invite you out to dinner, but--”

“Oh, shut it, Sylvain,” Lysithea snaps. “You haven’t changed one bit, have you?”

“Maybe,” he winks, “But you’ve only grown more beautiful over the years. Your tongue’s gotten sharper too.”

Edelgard sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if  _ any  _ of you have grown even a day older,” she says, her eyes glancing over to Byleth. Her silly smile returns, perhaps from the sight of so many of her former students together.

She takes a step forward to rein in her fellow alumni. “If we’re through with greetings, we can start the meeting. I am sure you have much to tell us, Lysithea.”

The assembled officers break their conversations and convene inside the tent. A large table awaits them inside already fitted with a plentiful number of chairs. They take their seats, Lysithea sitting across from the other Imperial officers. Several Alliance soldiers enter and stand behind Lysithea’s position, while members of Edelgard’s Imperial Guard match them across the table.

“Now then, Lysithea, the floor is yours,” Edelgard begins. “What do you have to say?”

“For starters, your victory at Myrddin has allowed me to convince the rest of Ordelia to side with your cause,” she replies, her voice and hands growing more excited by the minute. “They weren’t too sympathetic to you at first, but they trust my word. I will still need more time to ensure that we’re prepared for war, but the rest of House Ordelia supports you, and we can offer you both shelter and men to bolster your war effort.”

The air in the room grows lighter. “That is wonderful news, Lysithea,” Edelgard replies. “We will graciously accept any aid your house can give. Although, I would imagine the other members of the Roundtable do not agree with this action?”

“It’s my understanding that most of them oppose the Empire, and we therefore chose not to consult them about our decision. Riegan, Goneril, and Edmund all stand firmly in opposition to the Empire, and I have no inclinations to believe that will not continue as such. Daphnel, as I’m sure you’re already aware, will also continue the fight. My father has already submitted his resignation from the Roundtable after hearing about your victory. We are committed to your cause now, Edelgard.”

“Then what about Gloucester?”

Lysithea shakes her head. “No matter how much information I try to gather, I can never get a firm read on Count Gloucester or Lorenz. It’s very frustrating. I can only draw a few conclusions, but nothing definitive. The Count seems to be dedicated to neutrality, and never has any actual opinion outside of what benefits himself. Although, he doesn’t seem to enjoy cooperating with Claude at the Roundtable.”

“Feels like he’ll just follow whichever side’s strongest,” Caspar comments. “Should be easy enough to show him who that is.”

“Gloucester is supposed to be the weakest house in the Roundtable, correct?” Edelgard asks. “Perhaps posturing into his territory would be enough to convince him.”

“That is one option,” Lysithea says. “But then the question is whether you trust him enough to take his word at face value.”

Ashe crosses his arms, his eyebrows knitted in deep thought. “What about Lorenz? How much has he changed, over the past five years?”

“Truth be told, I haven’t had much contact with him,” Lysithea replies, placing a finger onto her chin. “Normally he accompanies his father to Roundtable meetings, but he has largely remained inside his own territory. My spies always report that he’s traveling between towns, usually to provide aid for the peasants.”

“How  _ noble _ of him,” Dorothea remarks, her voice dripping with venom. Sylvain offers a silent smirk in agreement.

“What is your opinion on him? As a potential ally?” Ashe presses Lysithea.

“I would be wary, purely due to his position as heir of Gloucester. I imagine his policies would align closely with his father, as he has such a definitive, hardline idea of nobility and preserving his house.”

Ashe sits back into his chair, and remains silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. His brows furrow. “I didn’t talk to Lorenz much in the monastery, but I do remember him saying that he doesn’t believe Claude to be an effective enough leader of the Alliance. Do you know how he feels about his leadership now?”

Lysithea’s eyes widen. “That’s very perceptive of you, because that  _ is _ something he used to say back at the monastery. However…” she glances away, pressing her finger into her skin. “I don’t have information to confirm or deny your suggestion. We have rarely had any interaction beyond speaking to each other as the heirs of Gloucester and Ordelia, and I tire of such meetings very quickly.”

“If I know anything about him,” Byleth chimes in,“I would say that Lorenz is the type of person who only follows a leader he can believe in. If we can convince him, I don’t think it would be difficult to sway Count Gloucester by extension.

“While that may be true,” Lysithea replies, “I’m unsure if it’s in your best interest to speak to Lorenz directly. Considering that he and Claude are former classmates, he may already be working in close association with him.”

“But, if we take it as face value, then we may gain a valuable ally if we use diplomacy over force.” Byleth stands and paces behind the Imperial seats.

“Think about it,” Byleth says, her hands passionately gesturing like a lecturer. “Lorenz is a person that is very idealistic, and stands firmly behind who and what he believes in. His other ideal is that of nobility, and duty to his house.” She stops, standing still, and addresses the rest of the council. “If we use that as our negotiation tool, as his crucial weakness, we may be able to sway him to our side.”

Caspar puts his hands behind his head. “That seems like way more trouble than it’s worth, Byleth. I don’t get why we’re trying to convince them both when we’ve already spent several years doing just that. I doubt he’s coming around anytime soon.”

“But if it does work, we cut down another house from the Alliance in one swing,” Ashe points out. “Killing people is costly. If we have a chance to get them on our side, and add their numbers to our own, shouldn’t we take it?”

Sylvain sighs, shaking his head. “Are we really putting this much faith in Lorenz of all people? I agree with your sentiment Ashe, but the thought of working with someone so entrenched into his beliefs of nobility is a bit revolting.”

“If we’ve spent years trying to convince him and the Count to no avail, what more can we really do?” Dorothea remarks with a shrug. “That being said, maybe the Captain is right. If we do speak to him something might come of it. They’re not exactly in a good position  _ to _ be putting up a fight.”

“Doesn’t that mean we should hit them  _ because _ they’re so weak?” Caspar adds. “They can’t resist us, and we’re right on top of them.”

“But their uncertainty, especially Lord Gloucester’s, means that he still isn’t sure about his position.” Ashe replies. “It’s needless bloodshed to be rushing into combat against a vastly inferior foe if we have the prospect of allying ourselves with them.”

“The problem is if we even  _ can _ trust him,” Sylvain refutes. “I don’t like killing people, but we’re going to end up losing our  _ own _ men if he betrays us somewhere down the line. We might be risking too much for little gain.”

“Sylvain is right,” Dorothea replies, her face concerned. “It really comes down to whether we’re willing to trust someone like Lorenz and a house like Gloucester. Or at least,” she gestures to Edelgard, “whichever path our lovely Emperor decides on.”

“Edelgard,” Byleth says, turning towards her. She feels her face warm up just seeing her so close. “I think we should at least try communicating to them, no matter the consequences. At the very least, we can avoid conflict. That’s the whole point of the war, isn’t it? A faction that agrees with us will support us more readily than one we have crushed.”

“Spoken like a professor would,” Lysithea points out with a loving smile, perhaps with a twinkle of admiration in her eyes.

Edelgard runs through the options. On one hand, she wanted to minimize casualties as much as possible. On the other, she found it hard to trust someone like Lorenz, especially given his close associations with Claude. Still… Byleth had already convinced her to trust in her; perhaps she should do it a second time?

“I will consider it,” Edelgard responds, “But I would like to discuss other topics since this discussion is in deadlock. Lysithea, is there anything else you have to bring to us?”

“Of course. Do any of you have a map on hand?”

“I do,” Ashe says, taking first a rolled up sheet of paper out of his bag, then a notebook and a pen. He unrolls the paper to reveal a small, portable map of the Leicester Alliance. “Unfortunately,” he continues. “I’ve never had the opportunity to travel to Leicester so I don’t have many notes.”

“Ashe is the Ranger-Captain of our army,” Edelgard explains to Lysithea. “Any information you give him will be immensely useful. You are our eyes and ears in Leicester, after all.”

Lysithea nods. “Based on what I know, Claude’s main army is garrisoned in Derdriu and hasn’t moved from it for quite some time. I imagine he won’t be making any offensive moves unless he feels confident about his chances.”

She then points to Fodlan’s Throat. “Holst has his troops divided into several pieces. About a fifth of his retinue remains at Fodlan’s Locket, which is to be expected. One half of his remaining army is stationed in Goneril territory. The other half is also in Deirdriu with Claude. As far as I know, those stationed in Goneril are located here, here, and here.”

She circles a few points in Goneril territory. “Margrave Edmund has kept his troops in his own territory, but he’s close enough to Deirdriu to reinforce it within a few hours. It would be...  _ difficult _ to directly assault Deirdriu unless you want to fight a pitched battle.”

“And with it being so far inland, our supply lines also risk being cut.” Edelgard notes.

Lysithea’s finger moves westward. “Now, Daphnel territory. Judith tends to keep her armies close to her. She only stationed a few companies to remain in Daphnel territory when she was defending Myrddin. Assuming that you defeated her army sufficiently, her territory won’t be able to put up much resistance as you march through. By extension, this leads back to…”

“Count Gloucester,” Edelgard says, recognizing again how important Gloucester would be to controlling Deirdriu and the Alliance.

Lysithea nods. “Gloucester was supposed to send reinforcements to help Judith in the event of an Imperial invasion, but you’ve had no sight of them for days, right?”

“The old man’s probably feeling the heat,” Caspar comments. “He knows he’s important to both the Empire and the Alliance at this point in the war.”

Ashe tilts his head. “If what you say is true, Lysithea, then just our army alone could force him to capitulate. Daphnel doesn’t have the strength to reinforce him anymore, and Claude’s forces are too far away.”

“This information is a few days old,” Lysithea says, “so the enemy may have significantly moved their troops in the meantime, but I don’t think that will change your long-term strategy, Edelgard. But, there is one more matter to consider…”

Byleth’s face perks up, already aware. “You’re talking about Dimitri, aren’t you?”

Sylvain’s and Ashe’s eyes narrow on hearing the name of their former king. Lysithea leans her cheek against her fist. “I obviously can’t say how ready Faerghus is for war, but it would be foolish to assume that he won’t come over the mountains with an army as soon as he hears word about Myrddin.”

Dimitri. The name brings back memories of that fateful day when Edelgard attacked the church. She remembers how the proud, noble, chivalrous prince had devolved to a feral, bloodthirsty mongrel of a man when he saw her. How quickly did he descend into utter madness. His pained screams of sworn vengeance echo in her mind.

She shakes her head, not wanting to remember the Dimitri that had fallen so far from the handsome, charming prince he once was.

“If King Dimitri is coming,” Ashe says with a determined expression, “then it makes securing Gloucester territory all the more important.”

“I’ve got more than a few words for him,” Caspar says, cracking his knuckles. “I didn’t teach him enough of a lesson in the training grounds.”

Sylvain remains silent, his arms crossed, his head looking down at the table. Byleth places a hand onto her chest, her face distraught. Edelgard notices the gestures, and her expression softens. She still didn’t feel comfortable with the options that she had, but she wouldn’t bring them down the path of needless fighting if she could avoid it. At the very least, she had Byleth now to support her, even should things go wrong or her decision proves false. She had little reason to distrust her judgement.

Edelgard rises from the council, her mind made up. “When can I expect your soldiers to join us, Lysithea?”

“Within two days, at the most.”

“Very well,” Edelgard says. “You’ll be joining Caspar at the rear guard whenever your reinforcements arrive. Ashe, I want you to leave for Gloucester territory immediately. Give me a thorough report of our surroundings, and take note of any Gloucester soldiers you find, especially those stationed at the forts. Be as meticulous as you can be, and I want that information as soon as you can. Return within two days.”

The Ranger-Captain gives a cheery salute, gathering his belongings. “At once, Your Majesty!”

“Sylvain, I want you to send several units to support Ashe to ensure that he returns safely with all of his troops. Have your other cavalry units secure the roads, and especially the crossroads leading towards Deirdriu. Stop and search any traffic they find. We will not allow any supplies to reach the capital.”

“On it,” Sylvain says, though Edelgard can tell he remains troubled by thoughts of Dimitri. He offers a characteristic smile for the emperor, hiding his demons, before turning to Ashe. “Shall we?” he asks, before the two depart.

She begins her next order. “Dorothea, can you send a missive to General Ladislava with all the information we spoke about today? I want a full debriefing so she knows exactly where to expect us over the coming days. Send her more troops if she needs it, we can’t allow Myrddin to fall to any surprise attacks.”

Dorothea sighs, standing up. “You always have me handling your important orders and announcements, don’t you, Edie?” she asks, teasingly exasperated before leaving, her fingers dangling by as she exits through the tent flap.

“As for the rest of you, inform the other officers, and the soldiers that we will be departing in two days time. Let them rest, but make sure they don’t shirk their duties.”

“You got it, Your Majesty.” Caspar says with a quick salute, Byleth nods to her. The two of them disappear beyond the tent, leaving only Lysithea and Edelgard.

“Safe travels, Lysithea,” Edelgard says formally. “I am glad to have you officially on our side of the war.”

“Wait, Edelgard,” Lysithea interjects, standing up. “I need to speak to you about something. Privately.”

Edelgard’s heart quickens. “Very well. Shall we find somewhere more appropriate?”

“This is fine.” Lysithea walks over to Edelgard, her fingers gliding across the wooden table. “You know a fair bit about me, don’t you?” Lysithea tilts her head. “More than you would like to let on?”

Edelgard arches a brow. “What in particular?”

“For example, the  _ reason _ why I have two crests,” Lysithea blurts aloud. The response catches Edelgard off guard, but she maintains her composure.

“I’m unsure what you’re referring to, Lysithea.”

Lysithea grumbles. “Don’t play coy with me, Edelgard. It won’t work. Answer the question. Do you know the reason why I have two crests, or not?”

“No, Lysithea, I do not.” Edelgard replies as calmly as she can.

“I gave you an out to tell me the truth, but I’m not really in the mood for these games,” Lysithea says, her brows flaring in anger. “Given your rank, you certainly have access to all kinds of information that others do not. I would be surprised if you  _ have not _ heard about the experiments performed on my family and House Ordelia.” Her words cut like venom; she had clearly let these thoughts fester in her mind for far too long.

“I’ve handed over to you valuable information that I would not give to anyone else under any other circumstances, but I chose to give it to you because I believe in your cause and the world you intend to create. I trust you and all that you stand for, but If you want a fruitful partnership, then I expect the same in return. Don’t lie to me when it’s obvious how much you know about me.”

There’s that word again. Trust. She closes her eyes for a moment, and she finds herself wondering why did she continue to hold up her walls with Lysithea. It made… no logical sense, but her heart still found it difficult to lower its guard. To trust, and to believe in another.

“Very well, Lysithea,” Edelgard says at last with a sigh. “I do know about your history, though perhaps not in the way you expect me to.”

Lysithea’s eyes widen with curiosity. “Really? Then why do you know so much?”

“I’ll answer that question, but first, please answer mine. Why did you want to approach me privately, now of all times? Why did you not broach the topic when we were still students? I may have had knowledge even then.”

“For a number of reasons.” She taps her chin with one finger. “Whenever we corresponded over the past five years, you were always checking up on my health, both physical and mental. You sounded like my own mother.

“I connected the dots in all your responses. They were always about my health, about my frailty, about my physical well-being and if I was over-exerting myself. I appreciated the concern, yet more and more I suspected that you not only  _ knew _ my history, but actively cared about it. With your victory at Myrddin, I thought it appropriate to broach you about this topic, in private.

“If I am to be your ally in this war, I want you to believe in me as much as I believe in you. I don’t want you to hide information or  _ act _ like a benevolent emperor with fake cares about my well-being. I want someone I can trust in and place my faith in, especially about a topic that’s so close to me, that you so clearly know about and understand.”

She takes another step closer to Edelgard and reaches for her hands. “I want to know what those experiments were for, why I had to endure so much. Why my  _ family  _ had to go through so much pain, and suffering. What purpose did I serve?”

Edelgard nods solemnly. “Very well, Lysithea. I will tell you what purpose you served in those… horrible experiments.” She shivers as she recalls her own procedures.

“I’m listening,” Lysithea says, her eyes focused and undivided in attention.

“While there are records of your surgery deep in the Imperial library, they are difficult to access. A normal emperor would not be aware of their existence. The experiments were performed in secret, without the direction of my father. He wouldn’t have been aware of it, if a certain event hadn’t occurred.” She pauses, swallowing. “The reason I know so much… the reason why I understand your experiment so well is… well, perhaps I should show you myself.”

Edelgard extends out her hand, her palm facing upward. “What I am about to show you is something only known to a select few in the Empire. You have entrusted me with sensitive information of your own, so I will return that gesture.”

She concentrates her energy to it, blood rushing down her arm and warming her palm until the Crest of Seiros appears as a floating, blood red symbol above it. “This of course, is the Crest that I bear. The Crest that I am comfortable showing most others.”

“Wait…” Lysithea’s voice begins to go up several notes. “Does this mean…”

Edelgard balls her palm, then repeats the motion. This time, the Crest of Seiros disappears, replaced by a complicated series of interwoven lines. The lines glow an ominous deep purple.

Lysithea gasps. “You… You have two Crests as well?”

Edelgard nods. “Not just any two Crests. This... is the Crest of Flames.” She cuts the flow of blood to her palm, closing it into a fist. “It is the same Crest that Byleth has, the same Crest that the King of Liberation had, as well.”

“Then… by the goddess…” she whispers. “You… you know so much about me because…”

“Because I have also gone through blood reconstruction therapy,” Edelgard says flatly. Her fists grow clenched as the trauma seeps through her mind like howling banshees clawing against their prisons. For a moment, she can hear the screams of her siblings, the clattering of chains, and the deafening silence when one of them finally falls dead. She looks away from Lysithea. “The agony, the relentless terror, the dread. I don’t need to explain those feelings to you since you know them just as well as I do.”

“Edelgard…,” Lysithea says, her expression softening.

“When the Empire invaded Ordelia territory, they searched for test subjects. They wanted to experiment with a new procedure to create artificial Crests. You were one of the few test subjects that survived. You were a ‘success,’ despite the fact that you have lost decades of your life.” Edelgard lifts her chin and stares into Lysithea’s bright pink eyes. She does not avert her gaze. “You were an experiment for my procedure, a test, a proof of concept. They wanted to create the perfect emperor, a puppet to lead their conquest of Fodlan. Hundreds of innocent lives were taken, families destroyed by the greed of a few Imperial ministers.”

Edelgard’s fists grows tighter. The anger, the indignation, she hated everything about this society. She hated them, the ministers, the crests, the Church, Arundel. Everything. It would all be burned. “This,  _ this  _ is why I am fighting for a world without Crests.”

Her rage boils. Her fists shake. “For my family and all that they have endured, for the countless lives sacrificed so that I may live, for  _ all _ the lives we have lost to the tyranny of the Church… I will build a world where such atrocities will  _ never _ again be sanctioned.”

She smashes her fist into the table. The cheap wood snaps beneath her strength.

Lysithea squeaks. “Edelgard, are you…”

Edelgard takes a deep breath, composing herself. Memories of the anger and trauma fade back into the dark recesses of her mind, chained where they belong. “So many have died because of the Crests and the Church,” she says, “so many families torn and destroyed because they could not produce an heir with one, so many silenced because they  _ dared _ to speak against such an oppressive order. It’s all so disgusting and meaningless.” Her voice trails off amidst her rambling.

Lysithea takes a step toward Edelgard and embraces her. Edelgard stands motionless for a moment before wrapping her arms about Lysithea’s lithe frame. “Edelgard… thank you. Thank you for telling me all this. I understand why you feel the way you do now.”

She takes another long breath and nods slowly. “I am sorry for my outburst and the way I have acted to you. I did not feel that I had the right to speak to you any closer than I did.”

Lysithea squeezes Edelgard tighter. “We will ensure that all the lives lost for us won’t be in vain. I believe in you, and I shall follow you to the ends of the earth, Edelgard.”

Edelgard’s eyes grow heavy with tears once again. Perhaps she could open her heart, just a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From VA: Here's the Edeleth all of you are wanting and expecting.
> 
> Edelgard and Lysithea was also very very fun to write, especially when she chooses to press her on how much she knows. While now we know what the Empire has in store, how will the Alliance respond, and what will they be planning at the Roundtable?


	8. The Golden Herd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude convenes a meeting of the Roundtable with the support of his fellow classmates, delivers the news of Leonie and Ordelia's respective departures, and asks a favor of Lorenz.

_ 19th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Derdriu _

The ruffling of parchment was the only sound Claude could remember for the past few days. Nothing but endless paperwork, endless documents, endless scouting reports to sift through, endless correspondence to draft and send to nobles, the whole gamut. He couldn’t count how many times he had written requests for men and supplies from the mishmosh mess that is the Alliance. An eternal sea of duties greeted him every morning and followed him to bed every night. He never imagined that this would be what it was like to run a nation, no matter how democratic its system.

He sinks into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sets aside another set of documents, mentally deflating. The most painful of the lot, a letter from House Ordelia, explained a noble’s departure from the Alliance. He could only sigh as he read it the first time, frustration and anger besetting every day. The Great Lord would be missed at the Roundtable, but there was little Claude could do about it now. He had, of course, seen their departure coming for some time, but it still troubled him all the same.

And there was still Colonel Pinelli’s resignation just the night prior, an event which he still wore on his face. The loss of such a great soldier would likely spell despair among the ranks. Claude felt lucky that he had been able to keep that under wraps for at least one day.

Moments like these always made him want to run away from it all. He leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up on his desk and forgetting about the papers for a while. Closing his eyes, his imagination drifts to the fertile plains of Almyra. Cirrus clouds wisp through the pale blue sky overhead, and a gentle breeze tickles the soft grass against his arms. A wyvern cuts its path through the sky, marked by a gap in the clouds. Oh, how he wished that he could return to simpler times.

“Daydreaming again, Claude?” Hilda’s voice breaks him from his trance. She leans against the entrance to his office, her waist-length hair wedged between her back and the doorframe. “Your eyes are awfully baggy. Did something happen last night?”

He turns his gaze to her with weary, sleep-deprived eyes. “Sometimes the stress really gets to you, y’know?” he says with a yawn. He stands; his knees crack as they straighten. “It’s nice to retreat to dreamland every now and then.”

“You’re not overworking yourself again, are you?” she asks with a pout.

“Like it or not, Hilda, I’ve got an alliance to run.” He sifts through his documents, identifies those he needed for the Roundtable, and arranges them into a loose stack. He smacks the edge against his desk a few times to straighten the edges before packing them under his arm. “And suffice to say that the war got a lot more complicated in the last twenty-four hours. I’ll have time to really sleep when this war is all over.”

“Awh, c’mon, I don’t get a sneak peek?”

“You’ll just have to make do with a little patience, my friend.”

She rolls her eyes and scoffs as he passes her by. “Alright, alright. Shall we?”

The halls of the Riegan manor bustle with handmaidens, ladies-in-waiting, butlers, and stewards attending to their business, as it always did for two days out of each month. The day of another meeting of the Roundtable had come, and with it a slew of nobles seeking to curry favor with the Dukedom. A few greet Claude and Hilda as they pass through the halls, the others either parting from their path or begging the Duke for a moment of his time; he swats them away one by one.

On the ground floor, he spies two familiar faces. One belongs to a man with slanted eyes and a slender appearance. His hair extends down to his waist on one side, and he wore a violet uniform adorned with a corsage above his heart. The other, a woman, soft of features, wears her hair up into a bun accessorised with an intricately woven set of braids. A pair of long, baby blue gloves cover her arms.

The man calls to him, “Ah, there he is. The man of the hour.”

“Lorenz,” Claude replies, taking his final steps to the ground floor of the manor. “And Marianne. Good to see you both.”

“Marianne!” Hilda squeals, rushing down the remaining stairs in pairs. She leaps toward the woman, pulling her into an embrace and tossing her about in the air despite their difference in size. “It’s been far too long!”

Marianne’s lips curl and quiver, growing progressively more anxious. “Hilda, please! There are far too many people for this sort of affection!”

Hilda sets the woman down, but not before squeezing her once more. “They’ll get over it,” she says with a wink. “Not gonna stop me from having a heart-warming reunion with my  _ best friend _ .”

Marianne sighs with relief, smoothing out the front of her long dress. She turns to Claude. “It’s been some time since I’ve had the honor of attending one of the Roundtables. My adoptive father said you had specifically requested us.”

“Only yourself and Hilda, actually,” Claude clarifies. “Lorenz has been attending for a while now.”

“Most interesting,” Lorenz continues for her. “I presume that you’ve a startling development to have requested even the ladies attend.”

Claude sighs. “You could say that, yes. Hilda already asked about it. I’m in no position to spare details just yet, but I suspect that I’ll need all three of you to back me. Can you give me that?”

Marianne nods approvingly.

“As if we wouldn’t back you up,” Hilda teases, nudging Claude in the side with her elbow.

Lorenz massages his forehead with his forefingers. “So long as I am not trampling on Father’s wishes, I will do my best.”

Marianne looks around the central hall. “But where is Lysithea? It feels strange to have a reunion like this and not have her with us.”

“We’ll get to that,” Claude says, brushing aside the subject. “For now, let’s make for the Great Hall. I’m sure the other lords are growing impatient.”

They travel as a group of four, reminiscent of their time as fellow students. Times when all of their responsibilities were far fewer, when the extent of their worries were an exam the following morning, when even the sun felt like it shone brighter. Claude hopes that daydream in his office just minutes ago might come true one day.

The door to the Great Hall greets them at the end of their final stretch. On sight, Claude picks up his pace. He pushes the double doors open from the center in a single motion. Inside, three of the Great Lords -- Goneril, Gloucester, and Edmund -- are already seated about the Roundtable among lesser nobles.

The lords all rise from their chairs to greet the Duke and the other young nobles. Claude raises a hand at-ease and claims his seat at the roundtable; Hilda claims the empty chair to his right, bidding her brother on her left a good morning. Marianne and Lorenz seat themselves next to their respective fathers. Two seats remain empty.

“Ladies, Gentlemen,” Claude says. “I see that we are all here. I would like to call this council to order.”

The elder man adjacent to Lorenz replies, “Minus Count Ordelia and his daughter. I am not wont to conduct our business with only four of the Great Lords at present.”

Claude stifles a sour expression. “A valid concern, Count Gloucester, but I have been informed in advance that they will not be attending this meeting.”

“Whyever not?” asks the man at Marianne’s left. “Did something happen to them, Duke Riegan?”

“Patience, Margrave Edmund,” Claude begins. “Plenty has happened since our last meeting, all of which must be discussed. Their letter will be addressed as part of that agenda. I ask only that you trust me.” His eyes shift about, glancing between all the assembled lords in the hall. So many, even those from minor baronies, have attended. “Now. May we call this council to order? All in favor?”

The three Great Lords announce their “ayes.”

“Good. I’d like to start with a field report from our senior officers at the Great Bridge of Myrddin. As I am sure all of you have already heard from the grapevine, the invading Imperial army has taken Myrddin from us and established a bridgehead inside our borders. This is no longer a cold war, gentlemen. We are officially at war. General Goneril, would you mind?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” The man seated to Hilda’s right stands, beckoning attention to him with his stature alone. “We admittedly did not anticipate the bridge to fall so quickly. Count Gloucester so graciously prepared reinforcements for the bridge’s defense, but she fell within naught more than a day’s time. General Daphnel’s official report to me detailed the presence of the Adrestian emperor’s personal task force amongst the invading army, as well as the emperor herself.”

Lorenz folds his arms across his chest. “So, Edelgard has taken up the sword. She must be quite intent on ending this invasion quickly.”

Count Gloucester clears his throat. “The younger among us should learn respect for their elders,” he says, glaring at his son. “Please continue, General Goneril.”

Holst produces a scroll from his belongings, unfurling it to reveal a large map of the Alliance. Red circles decorate a ring around Derdriu. “I’ve already recalled portions of my forces to Derdriu in preparation for a siege on the city. We expect that the Empire will waste little time with their march. Our scouts have already been dispatched to investigate their paths, but we cannot know for certain where they are at present.”

“If I had to harbor a guess,” Claude remarks, “I’d say they’re camping out just outside the bridge itself waiting for supply lines. Probably a force to garrison the bridge, too, to cover their best path for retreat.”

“What makes you suspect that the emperor will not raze the lands on her march to Derdriu?” Count Gloucester asks. “What am I to do to protect my subjects from her forces?”

“That will be up to you, Count,” Claude replies. “But I know her. She’s like a mother bear. She won’t come after you unless provoked.”

“I was hoping,” Holst continues, “that you might be willing to divert the reinforcements you had prepared for Myrddin toward Derdriu instead. If we are to face the Empire, potentially alone, then we will need every able man in the Alliance to defend her.”

“Have we no hope of assistance from the Kingdom?” Margrave Edmund inquires.

“I’m afraid that Fhirdiad has been silent,” Claude says with a sigh. “I dispatched General Daphnel just yesterday to deliver another message to the King. My fingers are crossed that she returns to us soon with good news, but I would not expect the Kingdom to arrive until month’s end, at the earliest.”

“And just when can we expect the Empire?”

Claude sighs. Holst, instead, answers for him. “If our expectations are correct? Derdriu would stand alone for three days before they arrive.”

“Three days?” Count Gloucester abruptly stands from his chair. “Face the Empire alone for  _ three days _ ?! You ask the impossible.”

Claude swallows the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry to say that the news only grows more dire. Please, be seated.”

Count Gloucester growls with disgust as he reclaims his seat.

“I would like to start with some information made privy to me by General Daphnel just last evening before she left for Fhirdiad.” He idly shuffles a slip of parchment in his fingers. “I am sure that all of you -- the younger of us better than the elder -- recall the Battle at Garreg Mach, where the Emperor herself and a band of former students laid siege to the monastery and attempted to overthrow the Church of Seiros. A former professor of the Officers’ Academy lost her life on that day… or so we were told.” He pauses. “I am afraid that that was a lie. She is alive, and she fights in Edelgard’s army.”

The Great Lords remain silent. The Academy alumni look at one another with uncertain expressions.

Claude hangs his head. “I know that this news comes as a shock to some of you, just as it did to me, but we cannot let her presence deter us from our cause.”

“So, the professor’s alive after all?” Hilda remarks. An atypical uncertainty colors her face. “That… definitely complicates things.”

Marianne hangs her head. “Oh, why must she come back to us at a time like this? And fighting for the Empire, too.”

“I have heard stories of her from Marianne,” Margrave Edmund continues. “She seemed to be quite fond of the young woman.”

Claude nods. “We all were, Margrave. But an enemy is an enemy, and if she comes knocking on Derdriu’s door, then I cannot hesitate to protect the Alliance.”

Count Gloucester scoffs. “She is but another common woman. The threat she poses to us can only stand so tall.”

“You don’t know her like we do, nor the power of the weapon she holds,” Claude replies. “Her mere existence has already crippled the Alliance. Colonel Pinelli has officially resigned from her post in this army. She refuses to fight against Byleth, and has left with the entirety of the Sauin Brigade. She is not the only one to leave our ranks.” He lifts an unsealed envelope from among his stack of documents, retrieving the letter from inside and clearing his throat before he begins to read aloud.

_ To the Most Esteemed Great Lords of the Roundtable, _

_ It is with a heavy heart that I announce my family’s departure from the Leicester Alliance. In the Adrestian emperor, we see strength. A passion for justice burns in her eyes, and her words are unlike any we have seen from the Alliance in recent memory. We hope that she will guide all of Fódlan to a new dawn, and that those of you who remain may one day see for yourselves what promise she brings. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Count Ordelia _

Lorenz grits his teeth. “To think that they would simply secede at the first signs of failure! Cowards, the lot of them.”

“Does this mean Lysithea is gone, too?” Hilda asks, concerned.

“And what are we to do with an additional house already swung in the Empire’s favor? We have lost not only a village brigade, but an entire House’s worth of soldiers.” Margrave Edmund asks.

Marianne sits silently, fidgeting in her chair.

“I would be lying if I said this was unexpected,” Claude continues. “I have long suspected their eventual defection to the Empire.”

“And you laid still, doing nothing to stop them?!” asks Count Gloucester. “

“I will take the blame for this failure. Truthfully, there were variables for which I did not account. I did not expect one who we thought to be dead to return and fight for our enemy. I presumed we would be able to defend the Great Bridge. That Ordelia would see the error of their ways afterward. I was wrong, and you have my utmost apologies for that. But now is not the time for apologies nor for dwelling on past misgivings. Now is the time for  _ action _ .”

“And under what pretense are we to believe in you now, Duke Riegan?” the count continues. “You have withheld this suspicion of yours from us, and for what gain?”

Holst holds up a hand. “Calm yourself, Count. There is no need t-”

Claude cuts him off with an extended hand. “You are right, Count,and I am sorry. In some sense, I hoped that it would not come true. I cannot change that fact now, but I feared that bringing such an accusation forward to the Roundtable would merely cause division.

“As for your former question? I would ask that you believe in me for the good of the Alliance and her people. We do not need to defeat the Empire wholesale, merely push them back to defend our homes. Is that not what you, my fellow lords, also want?”

“What I  _ want _ ,” the count says, beating his fist against the table, “is a clear path forward for my subjects. Not more of your drivel!”

Holst rises to meet the count. “Silence, Gloucester! You alone are causing more division now by forcing this issue. Now is  _ not _ the time for us to fight among one another.”

“The Duke has done nothing but refuse to take a stance in this matter,” the count retorts. “Does he not owe us that much?”

Hilda joins the fray. “He’s doing his job as the Head of the Roundtable, trying to play to all sides and find the truth! What more could you possibly ask of him?!”

“A spine, for one,” Gloucester says.

“I stand with the count,” Margrave Edmund says. “It is difficult for us to maintain our faith in the duke if he continues to display such… ineptitude at leading this Alliance.”

The lords and nobles continue their squabble. Claude sinks into his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. Moments like these grate against his nerves. The nobles always bicker amongst themselves, never willing to unify if one of them stands to lose something.

Marianne abruptly stands from her seat. The chair falls to the floor with a crash. “Claude is right!” she barks, slamming her fists against the table. The lords fall silent, collectively stupefied. “The only way we will beat back the Empire is by standing together, not as disparate houses, but as  _ one _ nation! Edelgard will not wait for you to choose. She has already taken House Ordelia from us, and her march will not stop until she has crushed all of us underfoot!”

Her eyes drift to the Duke with a frown. “Claude wants us to fight as one,” she continues, “not sit and blather amongst ourselves deliberating on what to do, or how to do it, or how to conduct these silly meetings.” Turning back to the center of the roundtable, her once solemn expression turns back to frustration. “The choice is ours. If we  _ don’t _ unify now, then what are we fighting for? Why do the noble houses exist as  _ nobility _ if they don’t even protect the common people as they’re supposed to?!”

She falls back into her chair, drained. The lords remain silent.

Lorenz fixes his eyes in her direction. “I’m inclined to agree with her,” he says. “We will not survive unless we unite under a single plan to drive the Empire out of our territory.  _ That _ is what matters at present, not some meaningless distaste you have with his proceedings. Let us come to a decision. Like  _ gentlemen. _ ”

The bickering lords each seat themselves. Count Gloucester is the first to speak. “Very well. What is our plan for the coming invasion, Duke Riegan?”

Claude breathes a heavy sigh. “As stated before, I would ask that both you and the margrave send what troops you may spare to defend Derdriu. We will need as many as we can muster.”

Margrave Edmund nods. "Understood. House Edmund will stand with you. And I am sure that Marianne will wish to lend you her aid personally." He beams at his adoptive daughter, garnering a smile from her in return.

Count Gloucester scoffs and rolls his eyes. "If there truly is no other way, then we will fight as well. I suspect the Empire will be in our territory in a matter of days, but we will do our best not to draw their ire and keep our men focused in Derdriu."

“And you already have my men at the ready,” Holst remarks.

"It seems we are all in agreement, then," Lorenz states with an elegant wave of his hand. "Have you anything else for us, Duke Riegan?"

"No," Claude answers. "If there is no further business, then we may call for an adjournment."

The chamber remains silent.

"Consider yourselves adjourned."

Claude breathes a sigh of relief, sinking into his chair. Hilda reaches for one of his hands; he accepts it for a moment, tightening his grip around it.

Marianne approaches the pair. “You feeling okay, Claude?” she asks.

“Well enough, I suppose,” he responds, positively drained. “More tired than usual, but that’s just part of the job.”

“You knew about Leonie last night?” Hilda asks. “That must have been what was keeping you awake.”

“That and Teach being alive. Lost one really good soldier, one whole noble family,  _ and _ found out that Edelgard has the strongest one human on the planet at her disposal? Any guy would lose sleep.”

He takes note of Lorenz and Count Gloucester packing their belongings and moving to leave the Great Hall. Claude brushes Hilda and Marianne aside. “Ladies, excuse me. I have something I need to discuss with Lorenz.”

Rising from his chair, Claude walks briskly in his attempt to meet with the departing nobles of Gloucester. Lorenz and his father walk beside one another, discussing something. Claude was not sure what, nor did he particularly care. Reaching forward, he taps the younger Gloucester on the shoulder. “Lorenz,” he says.

Lorenz turns about-face; his father does the same. “Duke Riegan,” he remarks. “We were just leaving, our caravan awaits. Do you require something of me?”

“I’d like to speak with you for a moment,” Claude says. “In private, if you don’t mind. Would you follow me to my office?”

“But of course.” Lorenz turns to his elder. “I shall find you later, Father.”

The nobles separate, and the pair of younger men beat back against the tide of people moving through the hallways. Claude guides them up the central staircase of the manor to the second floor, where it is notably quieter. The path to his office from there proves smooth.

Claude mulls over the plan itself while they walk. They would have precious few days to block Edelgard’s advance, if the army moved as fast as his strategists anticipated. But they didn’t need to defeat the Empire on their own. All they needed was time for Faerghus -- or his trump card -- to arrive and help beat back the Imperial forces. If they were able to suppress an invasion like this, then maybe the war would finally be coming to an end. Perhaps Edelgard would retreat and accept that she could not win even  _ with _ Byleth.

Minimal bloodshed, an ideal end to it all.

When they reach the door to his office, Claude gestures for Lorenz to enter first. The door shuts quietly behind them.

Lorenz browses the tomes shelved on the bookcases lining the walls of the office space. “It has been some time since I have set foot in this esteemed office,” he says. “I see that you have done little to make it your own.”

“You act like I’ve had time to redecorate the place,” Claude replies as he enters, aiming for his desk chair. He falls into it unceremoniously with a loud thud, leaning back and resting his feet on the desk. “Always business to attend to, some prissy noble wanting my attention, or some new military endeavor to sign off on. I didn’t think this was what I was getting into, so many years ago.”

Lorenz sneers at him. “Most unbecoming of you, Duke Riegan.”

Claude shrugs. “What do you expect? Formalities in a  _ private _ meeting in my  _ personal _ office? I left those at the door. See ‘em right over there?” He points at the entrance to his office. “Oh, lookit that, I see one now. That one is ‘call Claude Duke Riegan.’” He mocks Lorenz with an impression of his addressal and a roll of his eyes.

Lorenz, however, can only laugh. He joins Claude in dropping the pleasantries, seating himself on the edge of the desk -- though he still crosses his legs and holds his hands in his lap. “Surely you did not bring me here just to chat, Claude.”

“Right you are, Lorenz. But, first, I’d like to thank you for what you said at the Roundtable. I felt like that argument might never end.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Claude collects his thoughts, staring vacantly off into the abyss. “I won’t mince my words. I am asking this of you personally because I don’t know if your father trusts me.”

“After  _ that _ Roundtable? Whatever gave you that idea?” His giddy smile morphs into a curt frown. “He is… much less reserved about his distaste for your rule in the private company of our estate.”

“Well, that’s certainly reassuring.” Claude chuckles at the thought. He expected little else of Count Gloucester.

“Apologies. Would you prefer me to go a little softer on you?” They share another laugh.

“No, that’s fine,” Claude says. “I can always use the criticism. But that’s not why I’m here.” He sits up straight, the legs of his chair falling to the floor with a thud. “I can’t exactly bring this up at the Roundtable, lest the elder lords scrutinize me even further. I need you to convince the count -- your father, rather -- to go along with my plan to protect Derdriu.”

“...and what would that plan entail?” Lorenz asks. “Does this not include the troops we would allocate to the city's defenses?”

“It does, actually.”

“Then what more could you need? Surely nothing that would put the safety of my father’s subjects at stake, I would hope. We will need sufficient forces to defend our lands should Edelgard attack us directly.”

“Ideally, your lands are never in danger at all." Claude leans forward. His gaze spears through Lorenz’s body. "I’m asking you to engage them in... diplomacy, for lack of a better word.”

Lorenz’s brow arches in alarm. “Diplomacy? You wish us to betray the Alliance? After Ordelia just abandoned us?”

“Not betray," Claude explains. "Merely delay the advance of the Imperial army. Meet the Emperor on their advance. Call home your troops from their garrisons. Seem  _ welcoming _ , just don’t overdo it or she’ll read you like a fiddle. My hope is that Dimitri’s reinforcements will arrive by the time Edelgard lays siege to the port. Assuming he’s coming, that is.”

“And if he does not? Does the brilliant mind of Claude von Riegan hinge on a maybe?”

“Lorenz, please. You know me. But my backup plan won’t be ready any sooner, maybe a day into the start of the new month, at best. And I would rather not use them if I can help it. It’s not their war to fight.”

“I see.” Lorenz takes a few moments to ponder the request. “So. You wish for me to be the plant, so to speak? Do you think Edelgard and the professor might trust a former student?”

Claude nods. “I do.”

“And if Derdriu falls despite our delays?”

Claude looks to the side. He didn’t like to think of such things, but it would be remiss of him to ignore that possibility. “You get to play dumb and get off scot-free. Assuming that the Empire doesn’t notice any Gloucester banners among the cavalry, that is. I can arrange for that, if you so choose.”

Lorenz sighs. “The idea does not sit well with me, I must admit. But… I will see what I can do.”

“Do what you can. If it comes from you, I think Pops will be more inclined to play along.”

“Of course, Claude. I understand that much.” Lorenz rises from his seat on the edge of Claude’s desk. “Did you need anything else of me?”

“No,” Claude answers. “I’ll let you catch up to your family caravan back to your estate. We’ll be in touch if anything changes.”

“Understood.”

Claude rises as well. “I must thank you, my friend,” he says, tossing an arm over Lorenz’s shoulder as they walk together toward his office door. “I’ll have to repay you some day over a drink.”

Lorenz flinches at the sudden gesture of affection. “Leadership truly has changed you, Claude.”

Escorting the younger Gloucester away, Claude breathes a sigh of relief. Three major burdens lifted in one day. Already, his shoulders felt a little lighter.

Perhaps he’d take that drink sooner than he planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude's scheme is now laid bare: he plans to bait out the Imperial army using Gloucester for just long enough for either Faerghus or Almyra to arrive. As of yet, he is holding out hope that he will not have to utilize the Almyrans, but we can assume that they are at the ready in case Faerghus does not come. What he does not know yet is just how long Dimitri has known about Byleth's revival, nor how Rhea has encouraged him to hold out until this moment.
> 
> Judith should be arriving soon with that news. What will he do with it?


	9. For Whom Do You Fight?

_ 21st Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _

_ Morning _

_ Derdriu Fortress _

The winter wind whips through an otherwise still morning outside the ports of Derdriu. The scent of salt fills the air and the nostrils of men operating the pegasus landing area. Two distinctive guests stand among them, clad in the garbs of nobility.

Claude stands with one hand held on his hips and the other dangling freely. He keeps his eyes on the clouds dotting the sky overhead.

To Claude’s side stands Lord Holst Goneril, hands tucked behind his back. His vibrant, shoulder-length locks rustle in the breeze only held back by a suite of loosely fitted pins. Holst turns to the duke. “You’re certain she’ll arrive today?”

“Patience, my friend,” Claude replies. “I’ve never been one to doubt her timeliness.” He had failed to discuss a timeline of departures and arrivals with General Daphnel before she left Derdriu, but by his estimates a day of travel time each way would have been more than sufficient. He could only hope that she would bring good news from Fhirdiad with her.

A bevy of soldiers scurry around the two men. Most wear standard attire, their individual identities indistinct among the many. They shout orders back and forth across the roadway surrounding the landing pad. One set of soldiers take quick brooms to the pad, brushing it clean of any debris to prevent a dust cloud on landing. Another set man the watchtowers surrounding the landing zone to scout for incoming air traffic.

One soldier stands out among the crowd by letting his long, well-conditioned orange hair flow freely in the morning breeze, unhindered by any headdress. He takes his time discussing with a messenger, holding his hands proudly on his hips and puffing his chest full of air. His officers’ uniform -- rather unlike typical Leicester commanders -- displays no medals nor bands of field accomplishment, yet his posture and gait carry a certain aura of nobility.

The messenger offers a salute to the officer and receives a formal bow in return before returning to his post. Satisfied with their business, the officer approaches the two nobles with news. “Milord!” he says, taking another bow toward Claude -- this one far more curt than what had been offered to the scout -- before straightening his stance at attention. “Word from the far scouts. Two pegasi are on the approach.”

Claude blinks twice. “Two, huh? That’s some unexpected good news already.” He holds up a lone hand. “At ease, Ferdinand. You know I’m not one for formalities like this.”

“Apologies, milord,” Ferdinand replies, maintaining his tight posture yet relaxing his stance. “Old habits can be quite hard to break.”

“Understood,” Claude says. “How far out are they?”

“By our scouts’ estimations,” Ferdinand continues, “they should be arriving within the next few minutes.”

“Right on schedule, then.” Claude nudges Holst in the side with a wink and a smirk. “And you doubted me.”

Holst snickers. “Never for a moment. Any guesses as to whom our surprise guest might be?”

“I’ve a few,” Claude says, “but I won't hold my breath and instead let myself be pleasantly surprised.”

“Pegasi inbound!” a soldier calls from the north. “Prep the landing pad!”

Claude chuckles to himself. “Right on cue.”

A pair of faint dots manifest in the sky, apparent against the cloudless sea of blue. The pegasi approach, growing larger as they descend in a leisurely dive. Gusts of wind descend in short beats synchronized with the flaps of their wings. Claude turns his eyes heavensward and stands comfortably amidst the winds. Ferdinand’s hair whips across his face with each rush of air despite his efforts to tuck it behind his ears. The beats kick up stray particles of dust along the ground missed during cleaning just before their hooves finally make contact.

Judith dismounts her pegasus quickly. “Goddess above,” she says as her boots strike the earth, “I hope that I never have to fly at those speeds again.” She dusts her gloves and the front of her tunic rather unceremoniously before reaching to untie her hair. “I see that you didn’t burn the city down while I was away.”

“Not a lick of faith in me, huh?” Claude asks.

Judith snickers. “Not an ounce. You’ve carried out those orders for Daphnel, aye?”

Claude rolls his eyes. “Time to discuss the details later,” he says, placing both of his hands on her shoulders.. “For now, I’m just glad to have you back with us, Judith.” He motions with a nod toward the rider of the other pegasus, a woman with fair skin and cropped blonde hair. “And I can see you’ve brought an unexpected guest with you. I assume good news is on its way?”

Judith chuckles to herself. “You could say as much. I trust that I don’t need to introduce you two.”

“Not at all,” the Faerghus knight replies. She brushes a few stray golden strands out of her face, tucking them behind her ears. Her silver armor glistens in the morning sun, as does the spearhead of her lance with the familiar glow of a Hero’s Relic. A strip of brown wolf’s fur lines her collar, and a short green cape falls from her shoulders. “It’s been a long time, Claude.”

“Indeed it has. And looking as lovely as ever, Lady Ingrid.”

Ingrid giggles as a light flush rolls across her cheeks. “And you as well, though I wish it could be under better circu- …Is that Ferdinand?” She stops herself, catching sight of him. “I could have sworn he was…”

“Imperial, yes,” Ferdinand remarks with a bow. “But that is not important at present. We should focus on the matter at hand: preparing for the eventual invasion of Derdriu.”

“Ever the man of action. Speaking of which,” Claude continues, “I assume that Dimitri sent you along on official business, yes?”

Ingrid nods. “That’s correct. I’m to be stationed here as an ambassador of sorts for a few days. And I presume that this is the illustrious Lord Goneril?”

Holst bows. “By some manner, yes. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Ingrid.”

“The eyes give you away,” Ingrid replies with a smile. “They are much like your younger sister’s.”

A flush creeps across Holst’s cheeks. “Unfortunately, she will not be joining us. I am afraid that it is too early for her taste.” A hint of disdain colors his words.

“That sounds like Hilda, alright. But, to more pressing matters. Milord,” Ingrid continues with a gesture toward Claude, “there are details that I would share with you regarding Faerghus’s plans for her venture into Leicester. I should like to discuss them in private, lest we attract any prying ears.”

“Understood,” Claude says, offering a curt nod. “Shall we, then?”

The fortifications near the landing area are constructed with precisely cut white stones. Great columns of marble rise along each side of the main entrance sculpted with engravings of lions’ faces along their surface, a reminder of the nation’s heritage. A pair of heavily armored guards salutes the party as they pass into the foyer. Claude guides them through labyrinthine hallways to a small council chamber.

The chamber itself bears little decoration. Maintained mostly for function rather than form, its walls bear only a suite of yellow banners embroidered with both the Leicester coat of arms and the crescent-shaped Crest of Riegan. A roundtable waits for the party in the center. The generals are the first to seat themselves. Claude claims his position between the two. Ferdinand offers Ingrid an open chair before seating himself.

Claude leans forward, propping his elbows on the table and weaving his fingers together in a bridge over his chin. “So, Ingrid, you mentioned that you’d be stationed here for a few days. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised. It’s not like Dimitri to willingly give up a soldier of your caliber like that.”

Ingrid nods. “It was not his decision; I’m here on official orders from Lord Rodrigue. If I may, I’d like to summarise the plans that he and Sir Gilbert have laid out for the coming battle. General Daphnel briefed us on what you already know, and when you expect the Imperial line to arrive in Derdriu. Is all of that information still accurate?”

“To the best of our knowledge, yes,” Holst answers. “Our scouts from the area surrounding Myrddin have informed us that the Imperial army lies in wait for reinforcements and supplies from central Adrestia. We expect them to be starting their march into Gloucester territory on the morrow.”

“We’ve an old friend in Gloucester who will be assisting us in directing the Imperial advances,” Claude continues. “I’m sure you remember his face well enough.”

Ingrid retches silently at the thought.

“I expect that he’ll be meeting with them tomorrow morning, but that’s just an educated guess,” Claude says, before gesturing toward Judith. “As for Daphnel, we’ve sent a handful of messengers into the territory over the past few days. They’ve done their best to gather every able-bodied man from the major townships, and the townsfolk have been instructed not to resist any Imperial advances.”

“Do you anticipate the Imperial forces to march through Daphnel?” Ingrid asks.

“It’s possible,” Claude answers. “But I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Would it be possible to encourage them?”

Claude cocks his brow before leaning forward, hands clasped together with interwoven fingers. “Just what are you suggesting?”

Ingrid pauses for a moment to clear her throat. “The Kingdom army should be marching from Fhirdiad on the morrow, as well. From what little I know, their target is a gap in the mountains between Galatea and Daphnel territories. If the Imperial army happened to be stationed in Daphnel, then…”

“They mean to march through Ailell?” Judith interrupts, a horrified expression painted on her face.

Ingrid nods. “They know that it is risky, but believe it to be necessary to truly take an Adrestian siege of Derdriu by surprise.”

Holst ponders this for a moment. “If they are moving for that passage, then their march will be no longer than a few days. They would arrive much sooner than we anticipated. How would Faerghus have managed to amass an army so quickly?”

“I’m afraid that I don’t have an answer for that,” Ingrid says. “I’ve not spoken to His Majesty directly in months, nor would either Lord Rodrigue or Sir Gilbert divulge that information.”

Claude sinks into his chair, holding his head in his hands. Could Dimitri have been building up an army this whole time and simply not responded to their request for aid at Myrddin? Waiting would not be like him.

“How best can we plan for their arrival?” Ferdinand asks. “With open supply lines, Derdriu is equipped to defend herself for months, but if Edelgard is marching through Gloucester, can we not stop them sooner?”

“Meeting their force in a head-on attack would be fruitless, at best,” Holst replies. “And suicidal, at worst.”

“With all due respect, General, we do not have time to wait! If we permit Edelgard to strike first, then we will be overwhelmed!”

Claude’s eyes flit in a mindless search across the table as he dredges through his own thoughts. Their debate rings in his ears like white noise. In his mind, a storm rages. Dimitri had agreed to bring Leicester his aid, but Claude still could not determine why the king might have ignored their first plea. Myrddin was days away from Fhirdiad -- far too vast a distance to march an entire battalion on a whim -- but even acknowledgment of their request could have done some good for his mind.

Perhaps war had changed Dimitri. Claude could find no other tenable explanation.

A violent jostling from his left stirs him awake. “Hey, kid,” Judith says. Her voice cuts through the haze.

Claude shakes his head. The rest of the small council stares at him, taken aback.

“You alright?” Judith continues. “Seemed like you were dozing off there for a minute.”

A heavy sigh trails from his lips. “Yeah. I did just a bit.” He ponders for a moment. What was the last thing he’d heard Ingrid say? Something about… “Ingrid,” he states as he recollects his thoughts. “When would Faerghus be marching through Ailell?”

“By the estimations given to me by Lord Rodrigue? They could be on this side of the mountains by the 25th day of the moon. Perhaps the 24th.”

Claude purses his lips. “And you’d like to propose that we try to funnel Edelgard’s forces through Daphnel about that time?”

“If it is possible, yes,” Ingrid says with a nod. “I could act as emissary from this council to the Kingdom’s army; they will expect me to return to a camp in Galatea within a few days, presuming that Derdriu is not already under siege.”

“It’s a scheme, alright,” Claude says. “I’ll send for another messenger to Gloucester. Perhaps we can send some final instructions to Lorenz before he meets with Edelgard. Though Derdriu will need to maintain her defenses, should this surprise attack not come to fruition.”

Holst leans forward in his seat. His golden eyes cut through Ingrid. “Tell us more about the Royal army coming through the mountains,” he says. “I’d like to know more of our allies.”

Ingrid swallows a lump in her throat. “His Majesty is planning to lead his army through the mountains. The Shield of Faerghus will be at his side, as will a few of our former classmates. To my knowledge, the Knights of Seiros will not be joining them and will remain in Fhirdiad with Lady Rhea.”

“So, King Dimitri himself is coming.” The color drains from Holst’s face.

“He was adamant, according to Lord Rodrigue.”

Claude rubs his chin. “And you’re absolutely certain about that date?”

Ingrid nods. “Positive, Your Grace.”

Holst’s gaze cuts through Ferdinand next. “You know her best of any of us at this table, Major,” he says. “Do you suspect she would march with the mountains at her flank?”

“I do,” Ferdinand replies. “An army of sufficient size to contest her would be difficult to move through the mountains. And, like ourselves, she and her tacticians must have begun the invasion on the supposition that they could take Derdriu swiftly before the Kingdom could be involved. I do not blame her; I would have done the same. But none at this table expected Faerghus to mobilize so quickly. I suspect that she would not have either.”

“It seems the plan is sound, then,” Claude says. “Ingrid, what part does the Alliance play in this plan?”

She sighs with a shrug of her shoulders. “Forgive me, sire, but I was told to have you sit out this fight unless Edelgard were already on your doorstep.”

“The Kingdom army intends to face Edelgard's forces alone?” Holst cries. “Preposterous!”

“I am merely the messenger, Lord Goneril. I have no say in this decision. If you desire an out to keep your men safe, then here it is. His Majesty insists that he must fight Edelgard himself.”

“Holst, please, sit," Claude remarks. “We'll discuss this in time, Ingrid. I appreciate your concern.” Still, in his mind, would he be insane not to take it? A coward, perhaps, to tuck tail and let Dimitri do the dirty work for him. One weight lifts from his shoulders only to be replaced by another. But for once, something could go right. With the combined Kingdom-Alliance forces, they could beat back the Empire and put the war to rest. If they took this route, he might sleep well tonight, for once. He would have to consider it further.

“We’ll call this council to a close,” he says. “It sounds as if there’s more work to do. Let's continue our preparations for a defense of Derdriu, send a messenger to Gloucester, and allow the cards to fall where they may. Dismissed.”

* * *

_ 21st Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _

_ Dusk _

_ Ordelia Territory _

A horse’s whinny cuts through the silence of twilight. The beast rears back its head. Its rider clutches her heels against its sides, shifting her weight forward to keep her balance. The steed comes to rest after another whinny, just in time for its rider to reach for its ears with a gentle hand.

“Easy there, Buck,” Leonie whispers. “Something got you spooked?”

The horse rears its head again, almost catching Leonie off-guard and tossing her to the ground. A quick clutch of the horn of her saddle gives her enough leverage to stay aboard. She clicks her heels into the stirrups. As the whinnying fades, she leans forward again. “Shshshsh,” she mutters. “It’s okay, it’s alright. Want me to do a survey?”

Buck responds with a sneeze and a shake of his head.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Leonie hops down from her saddle and retrieves her sidearm and quiver from the side of her saddle. She straps each to her waist and adjusts her gloves while scanning her surroundings. Even in the limited light, her eyes find plenty to focus on: the foliage of brush on either side of the road, a handful of trees which clung to their few remaining leaves, the refracting of the winter sunset through the forest overhead.

She finishes strapping her gloves and kneels onto the road. A brush of her fingers traces out the ghosts of Imperial tracks. No more than a few days had passed since she and her mount had trod this soil in the other direction; their tracks had been long covered. Planted by the shoes of scouts, by her judgment. From what she had seen during the past few days on the road, the Empire had been pressing their position, pushing to secure roads on their advance from Myrddin.

“I hope you’re ready for this kind of invasion, Claude,” she says to herself. “For your sake, and theirs.”

The brush behind her rustles with activity and snatches her attention. She reaches for her bow and an arrow from her quiver, nocking it in one smooth motion as she turns about-face. “Show yourself!” she barks. She takes one step toward the brush, squatting low to the ground. Her drawn arrow glimmers with the enchantment of the Inexhaustible. She narrows her focus, and her muscles tighten like the string of her bow.

She takes a swipe at the loose foliage with her taut weapon. The brush does not respond, only shedding a few dead leaves. With a curt breath, she rises from her squat and laxes her grip on her bowstring, keeping the arrow nocked and ready to be drawn again.

Leaves crinkle in the branches overhead. On instinct, she aims her weapon at the stars, draws, and releases in one smooth motion. Her enchanted arrow splits into two, but finds no quarry. Her horse whinnies and jerks to the side at the sound of her loosened bowstring.

“I’m not in the mood for games!” she shouts over Buck’s voice. Her heart thuds in her chest, the rhythmic drumming pounding into her ears.

Another rustle cuts through the twilight. A shadowy figure leaps through the trees, barely visible in the dimming sunlight. Leonie traces its path with her ears, searching for any hint of its next move. She nocks another arrow and visualizes a single spot on the ground.

Draw. Pivot. Aim. The figure lands with his own weapon drawn, just as she anticipated, and they stand at stalemate. Her eyes focus in on her opponent’s face. His form matches her own.

“...Leonie?” The silver-haired hunter loosens his grip on his bowstring for a moment before drawing the nocked arrow taut again. He furrows his brow with a scowl. "Sure not a face I thought I’d see out here."

The Inexhaustible glimmers as it enchants Leonie’s bolt. “I could say the same about you, Ashe. What are you even doing crawlin’ through the trees tryin’ to scare me and Buck like that?”

“Imperial business,” he replies. “Nothing that you need to know about. What does it even matter to you?”

“Imperial business?” Leonie’s eyes widen, and she slacks her weapon; its glimmer fades into the twilight. “You’re with them?”

“Of course I am,” Ashe answers. He maintains his weapon, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. His eyes narrow, as if honing his aim. “Unlike you, I stuck to Edelgard after Garreg Mach. I chose my path against the church, and I believed in her. You never did.”

“Ashe, wait just a min-”

“I’m not interested in your words, Leonie,” he barks. “I saw what you did at Myrddin. How you tried to kill her.”

The color fades from Leonie’s face. A sharp memory of the battle replays in her head in slow motion. The screeching of steel rings as clearly in her ears as it did on that day. Her enchanted arrows hurtle toward her former teacher, only for each bolt to be sliced in twain by a single slice of the Sword of the Creator. She recalls the vivid fear that she felt as the tip barreled towards her heart and the frustration and despair of betrayal even as she was told to run. But she knew that she needed to correct her mistakes.

Leonie drops her weapon and hangs her head. She lifts her hands to eye level. “So, you were there. Guess I should have known.” An idea sparks into her head; perhaps Claude had rubbed off on her a bit, after all. “You planning to take me prisoner, then?”

Ashe’s eyes quiver. He reluctantly slacks his bow. “No,” he answers. “I’ll let you go. For old times’ sake.”

Leonie curses to herself in her thoughts.

“Scout to scout?” Ashe continues. “You should stay away from the roads to Myrddin.” He stashes his drawn arrow and slings his weapon across his torso. Idly, his hands reach into his sleeves to tighten the straps on his gauntlets. “They’ll be swarming with troops to secure all the paths leading to Derdriu, and they won’t be as forgiving as I am. They won’t hesitate to capture you, or worse.”

Leonie swallows a lump forming in her throat as she lowers her hands. She looks at her bow on the ground and resists the temptation to retrieve it, lest she run short on Ashe’s grace.  _ How am I supposed to get him to take me back to camp, then? Offer myself as a prisoner? By probably doesn’t get let anywhere close to them. Maybe he’ll understand if...  _ “What even makes you think I’m out here scouting for the Alliance?” she asks.

Ashe cocks an eyebrow at her. “Why wouldn’t you be? Don’t try to play dumb on me, Leonie. We’re both too smart for that.” He reaches for a pauldron and adjusts its grip on his shoulder. “Derdriu is aware that we’re coming, we know that much. Only natural that they’d send a few scouts to suss out our numbers and position.”

“And what if I told you that I’m not with the Alliance anymore?”

He scowls. “After what happened at Myrddin, do you really expect me to believe that? You chose your path, and I saw your true colors.”

Leonie frowns. An opportunity missed. “It was spur of the moment. You think I don’t regret what I did?”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“So then let me apologize to  _ her  _ !”

Ashe bites his tongue and pauses his inspection. “I’m afraid that I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Ashe finishes assessing his equipment. He lifts his chin; a pained expression wrinkles his face. “I have a duty as a scout to protect the army from any threats that I find in the field. After Myrddin, you’d be too much of a threat to trust.” Ashe turns his back to her. “I’m sorry, but I have to stand in your way, Leonie.”

Leonie’s blood boils beneath her skin. How could she be this close and yet so far away at the same time? Her eyes wince shut, and she grits her teeth. Ashe could not just turn his back on her like this, not after all they had been through together at the monastery. The frustration wells over, and she opens her mouth without considering her words. “You didn’t turn your back on Lonato when the church sent you after him, did you?”

Ashe freezes in his footsteps.

“You mourned for him after he died,” she continues. “I remember the wails that came from your room. The despair that you felt. You lost a father figure that day, and I lost mine months later. When I felt at my lowest, it was  _ you  _ that I turned to. Wouldn’t you yearn for any chance to keep a connection to him?”

Silence lingers between them for a few moments, only disrupted by the swaying of dried foliage in the wind and the squeaks of leather from Ashe’s tightening fists. A tear wells in the inner corner of each of his eyes. He hangs his head and grits his teeth together. “You will  _ not  _ invoke his name against me like that,” he snarls. He does not move, keeping his back turned to Leonie. “He is long dead, and so is my brother. You and I are nothing alike. I accepted their deaths a long time ago. You still cling to Jeralt even after all these years, and to the professor like a ghost of his memory.” Ashe lifts his chin and glares at Leonie over his shoulder. “You don’t appreciate her, not really. She’s just a tool for you to still feel comfortable.”

Horror consumes Leonie’s face in a scrawled expression of agony. She flinches, and her eyes sink along with her heart. “Ashe, I…”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he barks, his voice breaking under the emotional duress. “You act like you want to see her, like you want to apologize to her, like you want to be with her, but I can see  _ right  _ through you.” He turns away from her again and takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. “Turn back, Leonie. I don’t care where you came from. Just go back.”

Ashe takes a few steps forward, slowly disappearing into the dark of the forest.

Leonie looks at her hands in disdain. She slumps to the ground, her thighs held together as her feet splay to either side of her hips. How could she have let such a golden opportunity slip through her fingers? Had she really committed such a terrible wrong that she could not be forgiven? She balls her fingers into fists, and beats one of them into the dirt as the first frustrated tear falls.

Maybe Ashe was right. Maybe she  _ had  _ been looking at Byleth as an escape.

The Inexhaustible beckons to her with a faint glow. She reaches for it, chuckling at how it mocks her. “Dunno if I really count as worthy,” she whispers to herself. Her free hand reaches to wipe her eyes with her thumb as she rises back to her feet. With a deep breath, she slings the bow over her torso, string across her chest. “C’mon, girl, you just gotta find another way.”

Her eyes find no remaining trace of Ashe’s presence, not that she expected to find one. “Kid’s gotten good,” she says. She thinks back to what he had told her, to stay away from the roads. The risk could not be worth it; she did not trust the Imperial rank and file to understand her position, or even take her back to the main camp. For all she knew, she could wind up in Myrddin -- or worse, Enbarr.

Leonie shakes off the thoughts and rubs her forehead. “Focus on the present, girl. No time to worry about what-ifs.” She turns to Buck, who stands in wait for her command. A smile creeps across her face, and she reaches out a hand to stroke the length of his face. “Guess you’ll always have my back, huh?” she asks.

Buck sneezes and shakes his head, whipping his mane.

Leonie straps her quiver back onto Buck’s saddle. She reaches next for her sidearm: an infantry shortsword, its hilt garnished with a leather grip painted with a bright orange to match her eyes. She frowns at it. She couldn’t let go of such a precious gift just yet.

Night slowly falls around her; she takes it as her cue to start back on the road. She mounts her steed in a single swift motion. A tug of the reins and a kick of her heels are enough to encourage him along. “Just a little further, Buck,” she says to him. “I’d planned for us to be a little further down the road, but this’ll have to do. Nearest town shouldn’t be far.”

* * *

_ 21st Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _

_ Night _

_ Derdriu _

The scent of freshly-brewed bergamot tea fills the air in Ferdinand’s apartment. Notes of citrus waft through Ingrid’s nostrils from a small porcelain cup as she holds it to her face, the pairing saucer resting in a loose grip in her lap.

“It’s good to see that you haven’t changed at all, Major,” she remarks before taking a sip of her tea. “Aside from the hair, of course.”

Ferdinand pours a cup for himself. “It was not intentional. I found myself far too occupied these past years to find time for having it cut.” His pearly whites peek through his lips with each word. “And please, there is no place for titles in private meetings like this between former classmates.”

“Really, a man of  _ your  _ breeding letting go of his honorifics just like that? Perhaps you  _ have  _ changed.”

“Perhaps I have. Much has happened since I left the empire.” He swirls his cup beneath his nose, basking in the pleasant scent for a moment. Despite the weight of his words, his face still carries an unwavering glow.

Ingrid sets her cup down for a moment, placing it on the table before crossing her legs. “I would say so. I was under the impression that you had gone into exile much like your father.”

Ferdinand pauses for a moment with a mouthful of tea. He swallows it quickly before it can scald his tongue. “I am surprised that you know of such things.”

“Spy networks abound in all places in wartime, surely you realize that. How have you kept yourself undercover? The empire claimed to never know where you went.”

He sighs, placing his own cup on the table as well. “I have not been in Derdriu for long, only for a few days. Lord Goneril -- the man from this morning, surely you remember him.”

Ingrid nods.

“I have served under him for the past few years as my way of hiding away from Adrestia’s gaze,” he continues. “When I first left the empire, I felt as if I had lost all meaning, all purpose in my life. During my childhood, I had been groomed to believe in the standard and the pride of nobility. It was… humbling, to say the least, to see the terrors that those in power could enact in the name of war.”

Ingrid’s eyes widen. “You mean Arianrhod?”

Ferdinand hangs his head. “What Lord Arundel did was unforgivable, and Edelgard’s unwillingness to punish him made it clear that I could no longer follow her. I have been conflicted for years after her dismantling of my family’s duties as punishment for my father’s crimes against the throne. He was a vile man, but… I could not see how she could let Arundel go under the same pretense.”

He reaches for his cup of tea, picking his head up and letting the scent relax his troubled mind.

“War has changed us all, I find,” Ingrid says. She looks off to the side. “Gone are the days when we could just be schoolchildren. When we could laugh together, train together, when we all seemed to love one ano--” She bites her tongue.

Ferdinand tilts his head. He reaches across the table and pushes the teacup to her. “Drink. It is quite soothing.”

Ingrid obeys. The question she had wanted to ask still lingers in her mind. “Do you remember how we all used to be, Ferdinand? Together at the monastery, learning to love one another despite all of our differences in homeland and upbringing?”

Ferdinand nods.

Ingrid takes a sip of tea before she continues, staring at the liquid in her cup. “What happened to that? What happened to the bonds that we formed?”

Ferdinand frowns. “Sadly, I do not know. I recall that you were quite close with that o--”

“Sylvain,” she interrupts. “I was, yes.” She stares at a hint of her reflection in the tea. Five years had passed since she had last seen or spoken to him. She vividly recalled their final meeting. The tears of rage that had dripped from her face as he told her of his decision before sending the letter to his father. The false empathy he’d tried to show to console her. How broken her heart had been.

Ingrid bites her tongue and takes another sip of tea to calm herself. “Did you have anyone like that at the monastery, Ferdinand? A dear friend like that.”

One woman’s face comes to his mind. Her beaming emerald eyes, her full-bodied voice in the chorale, her consistent optimism feeding into his own. “Of course,” he says. “I remember her quite fondly. But that is all she is to me now: a memory.”

“What would you do if you had to face her on the battlefield?”

Ferdinand purses his lips. “Truthfully, I do not know.”

Ingrid’s face twists into a melancholy expression. “I am afraid that I’ll have to figure that out sooner than I’d like,” she says. “I can only hope that I will know what to do in the moment.”

“Do you think that he would fight you?”

She ponders the question for a moment before shaking her head. “I want to believe that he won’t. But he may not be the same man that I knew years ago.”

Ferdinand frowns. “Do you think that you could kill him, given the need to do so?”

Ingrid’s eyes quiver. She musters all of her strength to fight back the tears. “I hope that I will remember my duty, should the time come.”

“I will pray for you,” Ferdinand says. “That you may find peace when you must face him.”

Another sip of tea leaves Ingrid’s cup empty. “Thank you, Ferdinand,” she says. “I appreciate it.”

* * *

_ 22nd Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _

_ Morning _

_ Gloucester Township _

Edelgard swirls her cup of tea beneath her nose. “So, Lorenz,” she begins after taking a sip. “Tell me, why have you come to us? Your letter made little mention aside from a desire to talk.”

The heir of Gloucester sits across a small table from her in their makeshift council room in a small town’s tavern. He traces a slender finger across the rim of his teacup, and his narrow face bears a tense yet friendly expression. Lorenz bows his head. “A gesture of good faith, Your Majesty,” he says, “and to foster potential cooperation. We are both nobles of good breeding, and I suspect we may have sufficient commonalities to ignore our differences for the moment.”

Edelgard’s eyes narrow. Despite the encouragement of her companions, she knew better than to fully trust a snake. “False flattery,” she replies. “I expect better from you. Why have you  _ truly  _ come to us?”

Lorenz shoves his teacup away. His expression remains the same, but his tone changes. “I am here to broker an agreement, Your Majesty. Put aside the histories of our nations and each others’ demesne, and let us speak plainly to one another and come to an understanding. Despite our  _ own  _ history with one another as classmates, I cannot say that I know much about you. I would like to remedy that.”

Edelgard tilts her head before taking another sip of her beverage. “I’m afraid that you’ll need to excuse my suspicions of you, Lorenz. Though our families have been in good graces with one another through the years, I am still skeptical of your intentions.”

“Milady, with all due respect, in what position am I to lie to you? House Gloucester has never truly been a threat to you, has she?” A crooked smile curls Lorenz’s lips.

Edelgard raises an eyebrow. She pauses for a moment to lock gazes with Lorenz. Neither expression wavers. Just what could this man be up to, she wondered.

“Very well,” she says. “Just what would you like to know?”

“For what purpose is your war?” Lorenz continues. “What is the goal of this bloodshed? Conquest? Subservience? Territory? I would not expect such things from a lady of your disposition.”

Her brow furrows, and she clears her throat. “You misunderstand. Our war is not against you, nor House Gloucester, nor any people of Fódlan--”

“Yet you lead a charge into Alliance territory unprovoked after years of armistice.”

“Do not interrupt me, Lorenz,” Edelgard snaps with a frown.

Lorenz rights his posture, placing his hands in his lap and crossing his legs. “My apologies. Please, continue.”

“Now,” Edelgard continues. “I can assure you that I am not interested in unnecessary bloodshed. We merely seek passage through Leicester territories into Faerghus, and to eliminate the possibility of Leicester’s further intervention in affairs that do not concern them.”

“And just what makes you think that your war does not concern Leicester? You are, after all, trampling through our lands and slaughtering our men. Why should I trust someone who stands as a threat to our people, someone was responsible for the massacre at Arianrhod?”

“Lorenz, do you really think me the type to not feel remorse over the unnecessary deaths of countless innocents?”

“Given the evidence of your bloodthirst -- and that that  _ vile  _ Arundel still goes unpunished for his hubris -- yes, I am inclined to think of you as more of a warmonger than a worthy ruler. The blood of Faerghus innocents runs beneath your feet. How could you have allowed such an atrocity to occur under your rule?”

Edelgard pauses for another sip of tea. “As emperor of Adrestia, I accept responsibility for what happened. It is my duty to do so. I am not sure what else can be said, other than that I aim to bring Lord Arundel to justice after this war has ended.”

“So you aim to employ his assistance for some time longer until then? You have had years to bring him to justice, and yet there has been no record of his removal from his post.”

“Do you consider his banishment into the mountains to be insufficient? He plays a far more important role in the war than you may know.”

“And just what role might that be?”

A sigh passes by her lips. “I’m afraid that I cannot make you privy to that information.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes. “Do you not see why those in the Alliance do not trust you? It is this sworn secrecy toward your movement which casts doubt upon it! It is your unwillingness to cast judgment on those who sully it which draws ire to your name! Why do you think the son of House Aegir deserted his territory?”

Edelgard raises her brows, and her eyes sink into her skull. “Just what would you even know about him?”

“Plenty,” Lorenz says, weaving his fingers together and propping his elbows against the table. “He has recounted many of his grievances toward your mishandling of Arianrhod over an afternoon teatime.”

Edelgard freezes for a moment, her expression unwavering even as her own thoughts race in her mind. Had Ferdinand truly been in Leicester the entire time? “I see,” she says, reaching for her teacup. She takes a quick drink to clear her head. “I do wish that I could have found the strength or the words to apologize to him before he left us. He was a dear friend to us. It’s hard to say how heavily his departure affected our morale.”

Lorenz takes a sip of his own tea while silence lingers between them. “Forgive me, such emotional duress must not have been on your agenda when we sat at the table.”

“Think nothing of it,” she remarks. “You are right that I deserve to be held accountable for what happened. That it carries emotional baggage is merely an unfortunate burden for me to bear.” Her gaze trails down to the faint reflection of her face in the tea; she lifts her head again after collecting her thoughts. “Those who choose to leave over my mishandling of its fallout are justified in doing so. I cannot force anyone to follow me. They must see the reasons for themselves.”

“Yet there are those who continue to rally to your cause,” Lorenz continues for her. “That alone is curious to me, a phenomenon which I struggle to understand.”

Edelgard senses her opening. “Lorenz, if I really were such a bloodthirsty leader, as you say, then why would House Ordelia have chosen to lend me her aid? Do you think he came to Adrestia’s aid by force?”

Lorenz rubs his pointed chin with a few slender fingers. “I am not privy to the details, but given the timing of his letter relative to the fall of Myrddin? My suspicions have been that his departure from the Alliance has been in the works for quite some time. Perhaps you were quite diplomatic with him, or perhaps you took a hostage. His daughter?”

Edelgard rolls her eyes. “Your perception of me is equal parts amusing and frustrating. Let me ask a different question. What do you see as the duty of nobility?”

His eyes narrow. “What does it matter?”

“Just answer the question.”

Lorenz purses his lips together. “Very well. That is a question which has crossed my mind for many years. I must admit that this war has forced me to reconsider my position on the matter. I once believed that it was merely the natural order of things for men to be ruled over by their betters. But this war… these subjects are mine to protect, are they not? It is my duty to ensure their safety, to ensure their  _ independence  _ .”

Edelgard’s lips curl with a smile. “And therein lies House Ordelia’s reasons for departure. Why fight against an enemy which means you no harm? Whose goals are not directly at odds with your own?” She leans forward, cradling her chin atop interwoven fingers. “ _ That  _ is what Count Ordelia saw at first.”

“Am I to believe that your goal to dissolve the Alliance is not directly at odds with my desire to maintain my own governance? Your words carry little value in the face of your past actions, Edelgard.”

Edelgard sighs. “Of course not. My goal on the Leicester front is to wreak as little havoc as possible. My goal for  _ the war  _ is to free ourselves from a cruel and ruthless false prophet. Do you not see? We fight for the same cause. For the liberation and freedom of our people. The only difference is scope. You fight for your subjects. I fight for the people of Fódlan.”

“In a manner, I suppose so,” Lorenz says, chuckling. He brushes his hair to the side, tucking the flowing length behind his right ear. His expression sours to its usual severity. “Tell me, milady. Why  _ have  _ you chosen to even speak with me? We have seen what your army is capable of. You could have plowed through our lands with minimal resistance. Yet you chose not to fight, and instead to talk. It bewilders my expectations.”

“You already know the answer to that question. As I said before, we are not interested in conquering for conquering’s sake, nor killing for killing’s sake. I must admit, your presence here is as surprising to me as mine is to you. However, I would like to appeal to House Gloucester: an independent county who may make her own choices. The Alliance does not bind you; House Ordelia is proof of that.”

His brow cocks. “Tell me how you intend to circumvent the blood of House Gloucester staining Fodlan’s soil.”

Edelgard narrows her gaze.  _ He’s stalling,  _ she says to herself. “You said it yourself. I have no interest in fighting your men, Lorenz. I would hope by now that that much is obvious. My proposition is simple: order them to stand down and allow us to pass through peacefully. I have no need of your supplies, nor your men. I give you my word, your subjects shall come to no harm from my army.”

Lorenz frowns. “And if we do not comply? On what grounds can you presume to trust that we will not come charging through the rear in a surprise attack?”

“I have already accounted for that possibility. Our reinforcing army will be passing through in a day’s time. If you attack us, you will find yourself pinched on two fronts, and we are  _ both  _ aware that your army is not large enough to defeat ours in a timely fashion.”

He scoffs, chuckling to himself. “It is a precarious position to be in, you know. Father never raised me to be a pawn in a kings’ game. Very well.” He stands, smoothing out the front portion of his garments. “I must admit that my duty demands that I look out for the well-being of my subjects. I will make arrangements to allow your passage through Gloucester lands undisturbed. You will ensure the safety of our lands from the remainder of this war. A fair exchange, wouldn’t you agree?”

Edelgard stands from her seat in turn. She nods.

Lorenz bows and offers an outstretched hand across their small endtable. “‘Twas an honor to speak with you, Your Majesty.”

Edelgard stares at his hand for a moment, bewildered by the gesture. Quite unlike him to lower himself in such a manner. Still, she accepts it. “The pleasure is mine, Lorenz. I am glad that we could come to an agreement.”

Lorenz smiles before taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. Edelgard scrambles for a moment, but quickly calms herself. The moment passes as swiftly as it began, and Lorenz parts from her.

Just outside the doorway, Byleth leans against the opposite wall, flipping her knife in her fingers. She raises her head as the door creaks open and catches the sidearm by its hilt, holding it drawn and ready in a reversed grip. Lorenz, being the first to exit, offers her a bow. “Professor,” he says quietly. “It was good to see you again.”

Byleth maintains her stoic expression, going back to the flipping of her knife.

Lorenz pays her little mind and starts to take his leave before a thought occurs to him. “Oh, one more order of business, Your Majesty.” His slender eyes narrow on Edelgard from over his shoulder. “I am sure that you have already sufficiently scouted out the area, but, as a gesture of good faith… I hear that Daphnel is quite the ghost town these days.”

Edelgard glares at him. Lorenz reads the air and takes his leave to the tavern’s ground floor. Edelgard leaves the guest room soon after with a heavy sigh.

“Everything okay?” Byleth asks, sheathing her knife.

Edelgard nods. “It went as expected, though I did not try terribly hard to sway him entirely to our side. I sensed that might have been impossible at present and elected to merely avoid the bloodshed.”

“And?”

“He will call off his troops to allow us safe passage through Gloucester on our march to Derdriu. Though I had to strongarm him more than I would have liked.” Edelgard closes her eyes for a moment, replaying snippets from the discussion in her head. “He talks too much. Repeats himself, like he’s stalling for time… I don’t trust him, not fully. We should be wary.”

Byleth places her hand on Edelgard’s shoulder. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, yeah?” she says. “C’mon. We should ride to meet with the main forces. They’ll need our help setting up camp.”

Edelgard nods. “You’re right. We’ve much to prepare, still.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while!
> 
> We're alive. Lots of stuff happened in the past month or so to really screw with mental health and motivations to write. But, finally back onto a regular schedule (we hope).
> 
> Thanks for all the comments left while we were out. They are always lovely to read!
> 
> Finally, an update: VoiceActress is stepping away from the project as an author and will instead be editing future chapters. She's got other things that she wants to focus on at present, and this will be the last chapter listing her as a co-author, since she contributed much of the groundwork for the deliberations between Edelgard and Lorenz. For the foreseeable future, I (Lhea) will be taking care of all the writing. Chapters will be slower to develop as a result, but this was already a super-slow burn anyways. I'll do my best to keep things up on a weekly or bi-weekly cycle.
> 
> Ciao~


	10. On, to Daphnel!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Imperial army, finally resupplied, advances forward from their station near the Great Bridge of Myrrdin.

_ 22nd Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Early Evening _  
_ Daphnel Territory _

“How did you come to be a general?”

Sylvain and I ride in parallel alongside the Imperial forces. Our horses each trot forward at a leisurely pace. The Imperial Guard covers our right flank, the clink of their armor ringing in a steady rhythm with the dull thud of hooves and boots against bare earth. Sylvain has been speaking animatedly over the background noise, making conversation to pass the time along our march.

“Long story,” he says. “You want the abridged version or all the juicy details?”

“Well, how long are we expecting to keep marching? Should be closing on a good spot for camp soon, yeah?”

He chuckles before looking at the sky. “Another hour max before we should start setting up camp. Juicy details it is. Now, where to start…?” He scratches at his chin for a moment while his gaze drifts into blank space. “It wasn’t long after the battle at the monastery that I sent a letter back home. Just telling him what choice I’d made, and all that. I figured going home to see the old man wouldn’t exactly be conducive to keeping my head intact.”

“So… you deserted them? You were that scared of them?”

“It sounds really dirty when you put it that way. But, yeah. I guess you could say that I did.” Sylvain lifts his chin. “Do you remember my brother, Miklan?”

“The one who Rhea sent us after when he stole your family’s Relic?”

“The very same,” he says. “I trust you remember how my old man felt about him, too. He was always regarded as somewhat lesser, like he was half the son that I was by the circumstance of my Crest. Now, imagine, his reaction to his younger son -- and the heir to his house -- abdicating from the throne after his elder son had already died.”

I frown. I can see where he’s taking this.

“That’s just a taste of the terror that I felt when I made the choice to follow Edelgard,” he continues. “But that terror couldn’t hold a candle to the thrill of following her. So I did. I felt like… like I had a purpose in the empire, y’know? And, boy, was that hunch vindicated. You’ve heard the way Edelgard talks.”

“I’m well aware,” I say. “And so you’ve told me before.”

He nods. “I remember, right when I found you wandering through the halls of the palace in Enbarr.”

We share a jovial laugh thinking about it. It doesn’t feel like that was only a few weeks ago. The preparations for Myrrdin left us all so busy without a moment to rest.

Another memory crashes into view. “What about that girl from the monastery?” I ask. Her name is lost somewhere in the void, though the sight of her face is clear: long, flowing blonde hair tied into elaborate braids, emerald eyes, and a gluttonous love for the monastery mess hall’s food.

Sylvain’s eyes divert away, as if he’s avoiding eye contact. “Ingrid?” he asks.

A familiar, uncomfortable jolt fires across my forehead, like the one just before Myrddin. The sound of Ingrid’s voice rings in my ears, and a rush of memory floods before my eyes in an instant. The pain is far from anything more than an itch, nothing that I cannot easily bear. “That’s the one,” I say. “I remember you being fond of her.”

SIlence hangs between us, only disturbed by the marching infantry and the clacks of our mounts’ hooves. Even from the side, Sylvain’s eyes appear downcast. Finally, he replies, “I don’t like to think about her much anymore.”

“I see,” I say. “I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t worry about it too much,” he says, turning his gaze forward. A tension lingers in the air. From the tightness of his grip on the reins and the wrinkles in his forehead, I can tell that I struck the wrong note.

Sylvain clears his throat. “Where was I?” Even the tone in his voice hints toward a tempest in his heart. “Oh, right, early war stuff. Edelgard was all too willing to bring me into the army here. Somehow, I even got on the good side of that little raven on her shoulder.”

“…Hubert? Do you always give people these little bird nicknames?”

“What about it?”

I let out a short snicker. “Nothing, it’s just rather charming. You’re always full of surprises. Please, carry on.”

His characteristically cheerful grin returns to his face. “I led a few campaigns across the war as a colonel. One of the most memorable was the expedition back into Garreg Mach about half a year after the battle. Everyone was so anxious to return. It felt like ages before Edelgard gave the order to send in the scouting parties.”

I tilt my head to one side. “Scouting parties?”

“Looking for you,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Was that your first time really leading a major battalion?”

“Mhm. Some of the men were skeptical of me, and for good reason, I suppose. ‘Gautier’ isn’t exactly a name that I can outrun. But I think they eventually began trusting me.” He reaches across the gap between our horses to nudge my arm with his fist. “Goes to show just how good your teaching was back then. All that experience leading units at the monastery? Invaluable. Between that and all of my time spent with the other Eagles… It’s hard for me to understate just how big of an impact you’ve had on my life.”

My cheeks burn. “Sylvain, you put far too much stock in me.”

He scoffs at me. “Maybe I do,” he says. “Please, don’t take this the wrong way, but… sure, I first wanted to join your class because ‘pretty girl’ and all that. But the Eagles made me feel like I was at home. Like I could be myself and have a clean slate to start over without any expectations from my childhood friends.” A smile returns to his face. “For that, I need to thank you.”

I look down for a moment with a smile plastered across my face. “I’m flattered, honestly.”

“Think nothing of it,” he says. “What about you? I’ve talked your ear off. It’s your turn to tell a story.”

“I’m sorry to say that I don’t have many stories of the war,” I reply with a chuckle. “I hope you can forgive me for that.”

He grins. “Didn’t say it had to be a war story. What about before the academy? You had a life before you showed up at Garreg Mach, right? Miss  _ Ashen Demon _ , or whatever they called you back then.” His emphasis is, frankly, annoying.

“Sadly, I don’t remember much of it. It’s all one big hazy memory. I have some faint memories of Dad, but that’s about it. Everything else is just… an echo.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know if I can really explain it.” A thought occurs to me. It summons a stronger variant of the dull, faint pain in my forehead from before, though one that I can easily ignore through a clenched jaw.

“There’s a story that I remember, though,” I begin, “from when we were staying in Remire Village one night. We were just passing through, and then a pack of bandits attacked the town. We moved to help out with protecting the village and were able to drive most of them off.” My lower lip quivers. Is this… grief? “A man threw himself in front of a younger girl to save her, and took an axe to the back for it. I always felt bad about not being able to save him.”

The memory feels surprisingly tangible, as if it were something I might have lived.

_ Both sides of time are revealed to you. _

A sharper pain wells in my forehead and splits through my skull. Pressure builds under my temples like they could explode at any moment. I wince and rub at the source with my palm, sucking in a gasp of air through my clenched jaw.

“Cap? Everything alright?”

My breath rasps in my throat, but the pain has already come and gone. Her voice felt so close… “Yeah, I just--”

“General!” A cry from afar slices through the haze. I pull the heel of my palm away from my forehead with a groan. My head feels waterlogged, as if treading through a murky swamp as the world comes back into view. A ranger sits atop his mount just ahead, awaiting our arrival as troops march past him. He beckons to us with a wave of his arm.

“Cap?” Sylvain asks as he tugs on my arm. “You feeling okay?”

Sitting up straight, I take a slow breath and release it through tightly curled lips. “Yeah,” I say before taking another. My pulse feels like it’s come down to something resembling normal. “Not sure what that was, but… it seems to be gone. Should we go see what he wants?”

He snickers. “Read my mind. Was just about to ask if you wanted to come along.”

The ranger offers a salute from atop his steed as we approach. “General Gautier! I bear a status report from the forward scouting party.”

“At ease, soldier,” Sylvain starts. “Let’s hear it.”

“We’ve spotted a township from Captain Ubert’s report ahead, heavily fortified just as he described. On our approach to the town, we were spotted, and they immediately signaled for a surrender.”

Sylvain’s brow arches in disbelief as we come to a halt. “An immediate surrender? Toward scouts? How would they even know that you were Adrestian?”

“I cannot say for certain, General. We rode without banners, as usual. Perhaps a lucky guess on their part, or perhaps they were expecting the arrival of scouts in the area.”

“What’s the garrison situation? Does the town look like it’s heavily-guarded? Any sights of merchant activity?”

“Guarded hardly well enough, sir,” the ranger explains. “We counted no more than a few dozen men along the walls. Judging from their size, they’d need far more than that for a proper defense. I’d guess that many of them on-site are conscripts who may not want any more part of the war. As for the town itself, it still seems to maintain a healthy marketplace of smiths and merchants. We spotted two merchant caravans departing the town for the north.”

“Interesting. And the surrounding area?”

The ranger shakes his head. “Not one Alliance soldier in sight thus far, sir.”

Sylvain looks at me with an uncertain frown before turning his attention back to the ranger. “How far is this village?” he asks.

“Just shy of twenty kilometers along this road to the northeast, sir.”

I clear my throat before interjecting. “And you said that Ash- er, Captain Ubert was there?”

“Yes, ma’am. He chose to remain behind while the rest of our party dispersed.”

“Got it,” Sylvain comments. “Take your message to Her Majesty’s caravan. We’ll ride forward to meet Captain Ubert.”

“We?” I ask, blinking rapidly.

“You have anything better to be doing?” he bites back with a cheeky grin. “You’re coming with me, general’s orders. You were always good at talking to common folk. I’m sure that I could use your help in negotiations.”

I nod and follow behind him.

Sylvain turns to the ranger again. “When you deliver your report,” he says, “make Her Majesty aware of my whereabouts. Tell her that Captains Eisner and Ubert are with me. You’re dismissed, soldier.”

The ranger snaps a quick salute before riding back against the marching column toward the caravan. Sylvain and I kick our horses forward to the northeast. We exchange few words on our journey, giving me time to mull over the initial report given by the ranger. The purported lack of soldiers troubles me. This deep into the Alliance, I would suspect that enemies would greet us around every turn. We had chosen to venture this way at Lorenz’s suggestion, but neither I nor Edelgard would have understood him literally. Perhaps the ranger was right. What if Judith had taken her forces to the capital?

True to the ranger’s report, the town is not far; not more than half an hour passes before its walls dawn on the horizon. Fields of wheat sprout along either side of the road as we cross into the township’s territories. Men tilling the fields turn their attention to us as we gallop past. The road ahead branches around the town’s walls to the north and east. The walls themselves extend out of view in each direction, and small windows offer a glimpse into the interior. Bartizan turrets overhang at the corners, adorned with crenellations where guards might stand watch.

Just outside the main entrance, a scrawny man with silver hair stands in wait. He beckons to us as we approach. “Familiar faces! Always grand to see,” he shouts.

Our horses slow to a halt with a gentle tug on their reins. Sylvain dismounts first with a grunt as his feet strike the earth. “Long time, no see,” he says. “What’s it been, a few hours? Shorter than usual when you go off on trips like these.”

“I suppose,” Ashe says, “but I can’t say that I expected you to bring the captain with you.”

I leap down from my horse. “He dragged me along,” I say. “We were just reminiscing before the ranger flagged us down.”

Ashe nods. “I assume that he told you about how barren this place is, though I’m not so sure words do it justice.”

“What do you think?” Sylvain asks while looking around at the fortifications enveloping the city. “I can’t say that I’m keen on stationing ourselves so closely to townsfolk, and I’m not sure how Edelgard will feel about it, either. But… it’s difficult to turn down such a strong defensive position when we’re this far from home.”

Ashe sighs and shakes his head. “I know, it has me mixed up, too.” He pivots toward the interior of the town. “Come on. I’m sure you’ll want to talk to the mayor. I spoke with him prior. He’s… a rather solemn man, seems to trust me.”

I snicker to myself. “Wooing the common folk, as usual?” I ask.

“I suppose you could say that,” Ashe says, cracking a smile over his shoulder.

A few residents walk through the streets of the town as Ashe guides us along. Many of them retreat into their cottages upon spotting us, their eyes drifting to our weaponry and armor. The braver among them glare for a moment before returning to their business. They must recognize our uniforms, and from the looks of things are not very trusting of Imperials.

A more luxurious manor stands amidst cottages in the center of the city; this must be the mayor’s residence. Ashe’s knuckles strike the door in three gentle taps. After a few moments comes the pitter-patter of rushed footsteps, then a woman’s muffled voice from the other side. “Have you returned, Captain Ubert?”

Ashe clears his throat. “Yes’m. I’ve brought our field marshal and a fellow captain with me, as I said.”

Silence hangs in the air for a few seconds before the voice returns. “They know of our surrender?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Very well.” Tumblers click from behind the door before it creaks ajar. A handmaiden looks at us warily while bobbing a curtsy. “Good evening. I presume that you have come for His Excellency. May I ask your names?”

“General Gautier,” Sylvain remarks, offering a curt bow. “And this is Captain Eisner.”

Her eyes widen. “Gautier? But that’s a Kingdom name.”

“It’s a long story, madam, and I’d rather not waste time with the details.”

“Understood,” she says. “Please, follow me.”

A few other servants and handmaidens bustle through the manor. The interior fails to surprise with its decor being typical of a countryside villa. An ornately carved door greets us at the end of a long hallway. The handmaiden knocks on the door three times. “Sir, the Imperials have returned. They wish to speak with you.”

The door swings open to reveal a stocky, elderly man. “Please,” he says, his voice shaking and quivering with each breath, “bring them in.”

The chamber is sparsely decorated. Dusty bookshelves line the walls, and a lonely desk sits just in front of a grand window as one of the sole fixtures in the room. The handmaiden offers us seats on the opposite side; Sylvain refuses the offer and stands behind the chairs while Ashe and I claim the seats.

As the mayor takes his seat, he turns his attention toward Ashe. “Young captain, I presume that you have already told them of our desire to surrender.”

Ashe nods. “Yes, sir, I have. A ranger from my scouting company delivered the message to them. They’ve come to discuss terms.”

The mayor adjusts his glasses, pushing them against the bridge of his nose. “Very well. What would you require from us to spare my people?”

“Little, sir,” Sylvain says. He takes a short bow. “I should introduce myself. General Gautier. I’m leading Her Majesty’s army on our campaign. We’re passing through, and I’d like to station my men on the outskirts of your town at the end of today’s march.”

“And bring conflict to my town?” the mayor interjects. “Surely the Alliance will learn of your presence here. I cannot tolerate that possibility. This war has already claimed many of our younger folk. We’re left with few people to man our defenses and till our fields.”

“No, you misunderstand. We--.”

I hold up a hand to interrupt him. “Sylvain, let me handle this one.”

He looks at me quizzically and nods.

I lean forward, fixing my gaze on the mayor. Our eyes lock. I furrow my brow for a moment. “Would you take the certainty of conflict over the possibility of it?” I ask. “We want little more than land to pitch our tents and access to merchants and smiths who will take our coin.”

The elder hums to himself. “Surely our town cannot be of that much interest to you.”

“You’re close to the borders of Riegan territory,” I say. “It’s a convenient location, and you’ve strong defenses.”

“Strong defenses? Do you intend to draw us into an attack on your men?!”

“Your people, no.  _ If _ Leicester came for us,” I start, diverting my gaze to Sylvain, “I’m sure that we would be more than happy to assist in evacuating your people while we retreat into the city walls.”

Sylvain looks at me with a certain curiosity before nodding in quiet approval.

The mayor thinks to himself for a long while, scratching the underside of his chin with grimy nails. Finally, he returns his attention to me. “And your soldiers would be common sightings in the days to come?”

I nod.

The mayor purses his lips. “I am not so certain that the townspeople will take kindly to invading soldiers walking in the streets among them,” he says. “…what if I were to refuse?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Then we’d need to conquer the city by our own means.” In truth, I dislike being so forthcoming. Edelgard will need to forgive me for taking liberty with her permission.

The mayor leans back in his chair. “I cannot say that I fully trust this Riegan boy after he sent for many of my young men to be conscripted for battle at Derdriu. We appear to already be paying the price.” He looks at me again. “If this is what it takes to ensure my people’s safety, then they will come to terms with it. How soon will your army arrive, and how many men can I expect on our outskirts?”

Sylvain chimes in for me. “Should be no more than another half hour for the main infantry units, sir.”

The mayor sighs, and his attention flits between our party and the attending handmaiden. “Very well,” he finally says. “Milady, let us make preparations to inform as many residents as possible of the situation. I would not want to draw the ire of Imperial troops.”

* * *

_ 23rd Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Late Morning _  
_ Adrestian Camp _

“Welcome back, everyone,” Edelgard says. She takes her seat in the circle of chairs amid the center of our makeshift council room. “It has been some time. I’m glad to have everyone together again. Unless there are more pressing matters, I would like to call this council to order.”

Her eyes examine the assembled officers: Dorothea and myself to either side of her, Sylvain and Ashe further round the circle, and a pair of other officers whom I have not properly met. “As you are all aware, we are on Derdriu’s doorstep. The final battle in this short campaign will soon be upon us. Though we have been fortunate to sidestep any significant obstacles, we must proceed with caution and make all appropriate preparations.”

Not even three weeks has passed since we first left Enbarr, with only one major battle between then and now, at Myrddin. I had suspected that this campaign might go on for months, but Leicester’s forces have felt all too willing to leave a swath of empty farmland through which we can march.

“Ranger-Captain Ubert,” Edelgard says, motioning toward Ashe, “could you grant us your final report of the Leicester territories?”

“Gladly, Your Majesty,” Ashe replies, reaching into his side pouch and producing a roll of parchment. It unrolls across the table to reveal the same map of Fódlan which he presented in our meeting with Lysithea. Her circles denoting the locations of Leicester troops still adorn its surface. Ashe points to several blue scribbles along the map near Lysithea’s prior marks. “I’ve taken note of a few outposts of Alliance troops in places mentioned by Lysithea. She was correct on nearly all counts except Daphnel.” He draws a circle with his finger around the region. “The area was not this barren even when I had passed through on my own. From what we’ve surveyed of the surrounding area, Judith has left her territory practically defenseless.”

“Scouting reports suggest that none of the forts are garrisoned,” Sylvain remarks. “The roads are devoid of any patrols, villages have been left with the bare minimum of capable soldiers to muster defenses against local bandits…”

“The mayor of this town in particular,” I interject, “mentioned Claude by name. Said that he didn’t trust him much for stripping his town of surplus defenses like this to bolster Derdriu.”

“In any case,” Ashe continues, “it appears that we are relatively unchallenged in this position. It feels uncomfortably quiet, but… I don’t know if we can look a gift horse in the mouth. But if we’re to stay here, then we need to secure the surrounding territories for escape routes, should we be forced to retreat.”

Edelgard bows her head. “I’m inclined to agree. We’ll maintain our position here and keep our guard up. How difficult would it be to establish buffer camps for the coming days until we depart for Derdriu? Field Marshal?”

Sylvain answers, “I’ll arrange for a few companies to garrison the surrounding fortresses in the area. I’ve a few locations in mind after looking through Ashe’s preliminary report and the other scouts’ surveys of the territory. I’ll prioritize some of our best archers near the border to watch for incoming Galatean knights aiming to reinforce Derdriu.”

“Agreed. And what of our supply lines? How are our foodstocks and weaponry looking for the coming days?”

One of the officers whom I do not recognize pipes in. “Should have no issues on either of those fronts, Your Majesty. I’ve enlisted the services of what local smiths remain here to ensure that our armories will be in pristine condition for the siege.”

“Miss Arnault,” Edelgard continues, “have you any word from the rearguard?”

“Nothing negative as of the most recent communication,” Dorothea replies. “Everything seems to be running smoothly for them. The Bergliez and Ordelia units convened shortly before they sent their last messenger. One very important note from them, though: an Alliance deserter picked up by the Ordelia regiments. The name might ring a bell. One Leonie Pinelli.”

The name triggers a reflex. An echoed memory rushes into my periphery for an instant and draws a dull pain welled in my forehead along with it. My senses flare: the smell of blood, the taste of rust in my mouth, the odd tension in my gut as I reach for the arrow buried in it, and the surge of adrenaline as I power through to retaliate. An instinctive click of my molars turns the clock back a few seconds. I whip my blade, swirling it above my head before hurling it in a blind rage toward where the arrow would come. It pierces her breastplate, and she screams. Then, the vision dissipates again, dissolving into the back of my brain.

“So, she’s alive after all,” Edelgard replies. “And she’s to be coming with the rear guard?”

What? She’s… alive? But… I killed her. I watched her fall to the ground dead as I drew back my blade and weeped. No, surely I wouldn’t have done that. Surely I would have turned the flow of time back again to hold the blade still just before it reached her. My throat tightens with a swallow, and I shove the thoughts away to go through later.

Dorothea nods.

Ashe scoffs beneath his breath to my left.

Edelgard continues, “I won’t turn her away. The more skilled hands that we can bring to our cause, the better. How does their pace look? Are we on track to rendezvous before the main forces depart for Derdriu?”

“Should all be according to plan, Your Majesty. They’ll be set to arrive tomorrow evening.”

“Excellent.” Edelgard at last turns her attention back to a distracted-looking Ashe. “Ranger-Captain, are we missing any critical information about our enemy’s defenses?”

Ashe perks upright at the sound of his name. “O-oh, um. Right, Derdriu. I wasn’t able to get much of a good look at Derdriu as I’d like due to time constraints,” he replies. “You ordered me to prioritize the Daphnel and Riegan countrysides first, but if we’re planning for a full siege of the city already, I can give it a good look. Shouldn’t take more than two days’ work in the field, if I’m given the time.”

“I’m not comfortable trying to lay siege to a city we haven’t even taken a proper look at,” Sylvain says. “Give the kid a day or two out, let him draw up what he can see, and we’ll march out afterwards. When we’ve come this far, what’s the extra time for safety?”

“I concur,” Edelgard says. “Field Marshal, can you spare any of your cavalry commanders? I would like us to send a small unit into the field to cover Ashe’s position.”

“I’ll do you one better,” he replies. “Let me handle that responsibility.”

Edelgard’s eyes widen. “Are you certain about that? You said it yourself, we’re deep in enemy territory. What if we were to come under attack?”

“There is no way that that could happen,” Sylvain replies. “We’ll have garrisons surrounding ourselves in a buffer zone, and if the duke wanted to attack us in our current position, then we would have seen the Leicester camps up ahead in Riegan territory. He doesn’t care that we’re here.” He leans forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Let me take care of the recon escort. I wanna make sure that it’s done right when we’re risking one of our most valuable sources of recon into what could be contested territory. You trusted me after Myrddin, and you can trust me here, too.”

“Pardon my prodding,” Dorothea chimes, “but what exactly are you planning to do about the camp in the meantime? Are we going to  _ not _ have a commanding officer on duty for up to two days? That just sounds reckless.”

Sylvain throws his hands wide. “I’ll leave someone else in command in my absence,” he says, as if it were obvious. “A standing marshal, as it were. I’ve even got just the person in mind.” He looks at me and cracks a smile. “Cap? Feeling up to it?”

My jaw drops into my lap.

“I can’t think of anyone else here that I’d trust more with the job,” he says.

A smile creeps across Edelgard’s face. “If she is willing to take the position, then I’ll allow it.”

A hot flush creeps across my cheeks. “Well,” I start with a sigh, “I can’t say that I’m too experienced in full-scale army command. But, if it will put everyone a little more at ease, then…”

“Very well,” Edelgard says. “General Gautier will excuse himself from camp into the field to ensure Captain Ubert’s safe return. Meanwhile, Captain Eisner will serve as an interim marshal and commander of the camp. I will assume that none present are opposed. Is there any other business for this council to cover?”

The room falls silent for a few seconds. The officers glance at one another.

“I will take our collective silence as a no, and so I will not keep you any longer. This meeting is hereby adjourned. I shall send for another, shorter council once our front lines begin their march for Deirdriu.”

Edelgard is the first to rise from her seat. She dismisses herself quickly. I suppose she still has much to prepare before we depart.

Dread washes over me as I stand from my chair to leave the room. Interim marshal? It’s a whole new level of responsibility. I suppose that it can’t be too different than my prior experience working with a group of students at the monastery, but the wider breadth of authority feels intimidating, to say the least.

The surrounding voices of other officers collect into a cacophony of noise, barely discernible aside from the stray word here or there that I can pick out myself. Already, I can feel the stress mounting, manifesting with a thudding pain in my temples only worsened by the noise. Perhaps a bit of time focusing on preparatory work for the coming siege would help distract me for a while. The guard would need to be readied with supplies and rations… And surely there would be some logistics to discuss in the morning with the transfer of authority. And then there were the thoughts about my apparently faulty memory to sort out.

I frown. The sinking pit in my stomach tells me that I’ve gotten myself in over my head.

* * *

_ 23rd Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Late Afternoon _  
_ Adrestian Camp _

“Captain? Can I speak with you for a moment?”

Ashe’s voice draws my attention from my deliberations over a list of logistics planned out for the remainder of the Imperial Guard. His silhouette lingers outside the entrance to my tent. “Ashe, please,” I answer while removing my reading glasses. “You don’t need to be so formal with me. Come in.”

His shadow vanishes from view as he slinks into the tent. “Sorry, old habits die hard,” he says, scratching at the back of his head.

“I’m sure they do,” I reply with a playful tone. “Just my name is fine, though, at least when it’s just the two of us like this.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure if I could manage another name change,” he says. “It was hard enough to move from ‘Professor’ to ‘Captain,’ you know. I had to rehearse that one a few times over lunch.”

We share a laugh together, though something feels off about him. The texture of his voice is grittier than usual. “What can I do for you, Ashe?” I ask. “Is something bothering you?”

His lips twist into a disturbed frown. “I guess nothing slips by you, huh? I was just thinking about what Edelgard said earlier.”

The silence hangs tense in the air, as if he thinks that I can read his mind. “Edelgard said a lot of things earlier. Anything specific?”

Ashe stares at me for a moment. “Do you mind if I sit? Just feeling a little weak in the knees thinking about it.” I offer him a seat atop a trunk situated against the cloth wall of my tent. His breaths are ragged even at rest. I open my mouth to question him, but he beats me to the punch. “There was… one piece of information that I left out of my report,” he says. “And it’s weighing on my conscience pretty heavily now, like I’ve told a terrible lie. …I knew that Leonie was alive somewhere in the Leicester wilderness. I ran into her on my way back to the camp from my initial survey.”

…huh. I cross one leg over the other. “I’m confused. What about this is weighing on you?”

He balls his hands into tightly-coiled fists, knuckles face down against his trousers. “Edelgard seems quick to trust her, but I’m… well, frankly, I’m not so sure.”

Ashe’s discomfort is obvious. Is he struggling to tell the whole story? Is he afraid that I’ll berate him? Surely he knows me better. I lean forward to focus on him. “Did something happen?”

“Yes and no,” he replies. “Do you remember Myrrdin, Captain? When she shot at you?”

I conjure the same false memory from earlier today. It plays forward in an instant. My stomach sinks from the sight of Leonie’s once-fatal wound. “Vaguely,” I say. “What of it?”

“Do you think you can trust her after that? I mean… she clearly wanted you dead, didn’t she? She’s dangerous to you.”

The muscles in my face twitch. Dangerous? “I’m not so sure that I believe that. She could have just as easily been caught up in the chaos of the battlefield and shot someone who looked like an enemy.”

“That’s just it, Captain. You  _ were _ her enemy. She even proved it to you herself. I watched it happen. Just when you were about to retaliate, she turned her tail and ran.”

The proper memory -- I suppose that it’s proper, at least -- briefly cascades into view and brings with it the familiar dull pain that I’ve come to expect. The tip of the Sword of the Creator hangs suspended in the air just before striking Leonie’s breastplate. I mouth the command silently for her to run, and she obeys, fleeing for her life amid a swarm of diving falcon knights. “I do,” I say. “She ran because I begged her to.”

The evening chill sets into the air, only thickening the tension between us. “She ran because I couldn’t bring myself to kill her,” I continue. “I hope you don’t think that that makes me weak.”

Ashe blinks a few times. “I don’t see why it would. She might have been our enemy then, but… she was on our side, at one point.”

“What even happened to her with that?”

Ashe shrugs. “I don’t know.”

I purse my lips and nod. “I think I’d like to find out. And I trust her not to try and shoot me again. You’re here to tell me about this, so she didn’t shoot you. Is that fair?”

“I didn’t come here to try and convince you of anything, Captain,” Ashe chides. “I just wanted to hear your opinion and to clear my own head about it. It felt… wrong to not tell someone about when I met her in the woods.”

“You’ve still not told me much about that. What exactly happened?”

Ashe folds his arms over his chest. His feet drum against the dry cloth of the tent floor. “We encountered one another by pure chance,” he says softly. “Almost had a skirmish, staring each other down with our weapons drawn. I told her that I’d let her go, for old times’ sake. Felt like I owed her that much with all she’d taught me at the monastery.”

I nod. “I remember. She used to teach you and Bernadetta archery. What’s stopping you from holding onto that memory and letting it color your perception of her?”

Another silence lingers between us. Ashe meditates amid what must be a tempest of his own thoughts. Finally, he speaks. “I just… I couldn’t shake what I saw at Myrrdin. It felt like the gravest betrayal of what you’d done for all of us.”

“Do you think I was wrong to start to retaliate?” I skip over the detail where I definitely did in a separate flow of time. That would be my own mistake to swallow. Thank Sothis that I would not need to live with the consequences of it.

Ashe shakes his head. “No, I don’t. You were just acting in self-defense.” He hangs his head again, and his grip tightens on the fabric of his trousers. “She said some things when I met with her again that… well, that set me off, to put it lightly. But I don’t think you should worry yourself with my own demons.”

“Aren’t I already?” I ask.

He chuckles. “I suppose, but I’ll keep this one close to my chest. It’s not important.” The silence this time is rather awkward. Nothing much left to say between us. Ashe continues, “So… you trust her, yeah? You’re not afraid of her coming to camp and alerting the Alliance to our position?”

“If I were, do you think we would have met with Lorenz?”

A smile returns to Ashe’s face. “I’ll try to make my own peace with this, Captain. I still don’t know if I can agree with you and Edelgard, but I’ll do my best to defer to your judgment.” He rises to his feet, offers a salute, and bows. “Thanks for chatting.”

I brush him off. “What did I say about formalities when it’s just the two of us?”

Crimson stains his cheeks. “I told you, old habits die hard. I’ve got some preparations to finish up before I set out in the morning. So, er… I’ll run off and take care of those now.”

With that, he departs. The kid’s heart is admirable. Maybe a bit too honorable and steeped in his ideals for his own good, but admirable. I smile at how much he’s grown from his days in the academy and return to my work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems the Imperials have taken the bait, though it is hard for them to do otherwise.
> 
> Hit me up with more comments, they give me life. ❤


	11. The Lion Wakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Faerghus army convenes in Galatea to begin their forward advance into Alliance territory in search of the Imperial army.

_ 24th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186  
Early Morning  
Faerghus Camp, Galatea _

The first hint of dawn breaks through the opening to Dimitri’s tent, shining specks of light across his face. He lifts his eyes. How long had it been since he had properly slept, he wonders. Two days? Three? Slowly, he had begun to lose count of the restless nights as they passed by in a blur, haunted by whispers of the dead. The voices had harrowed him each night, muttering foul words in his ears as their spirits caressed his cheeks.

_ Bring us the witch’s head! _

_ She must atone for her sins! _

_ Blood for Duscur! _

_ She will burn in the fires of eternity! _

His body winces and twitches compulsively. He takes a deep breath, letting the air flood his lungs in hope that it might bring him some measure of relief. Even as he exhales, he finds none. The tormenting voices continue, spewing profanities and spurring him to action. He knew his duty. He could not be free of their grip on his mind until the witch lay dead at his feet.

The opening to his tent stirs. Dimitri’s hand reaches for his lance. The blade glimmers to life

A woman’s face peers into the tent, the minimal sunlight outlining her head like an angel’s halo and masking her features amid the darkness inside. “Dimitri,” she says, “our scout from Daphnel has returned.”

Dimitri grits his teeth and snarls before rising to his feet. “Shut the tent, Ingrid,” he says. He towers over the woman as he exits his tent, the top of her head only barely coming to his shoulder. Direct exposure to sunlight compels him to bring a hand up to visor his eyes as they adjust. The light reflects from the surface of his black plate armor, sullied as it was with the soil of a few days’ wear. He had found little motivation or reason to change it since the army had left Fhirdiad.

Just outside of his tent, familiar figures await his arrival: the woman who had just beckoned him from his lair, and two men of House Fraldarius.

The elder -- Rodrigue, ruling duke of the noble house -- bears narrow, angular features. His ice-blue eyes cut into the bridge of his nose, and his age shows itself in the prominence of his cheekbones and a few streaks of gray in his wavy, dark hair. White gloves cover his hands, and a magnificent, fur-lined cloak falls from his shoulders.

The younger, a childhood friend of his -- Felix, the elder’s son -- wears his hair with a short, sweeping cut. The structure of his face resembles his father’s, though with fuller, more youthful cheeks and cleanly shaven jaw. A leather pad adorns his left shoulder, an accent to the teal garment of his tunic, and a pair of swords dangle from his belt.

“Your Majesty,” Rodrigue says. “Apologies for waking you so early. We anticipated our scout to arrive perhaps an hour later.”

“Wake?” Dimitri asks. A hint of vitriol taints his voice. “Think nothing of it, Rodrigue. Sleep eludes me still.”

An unknown woman offers a salute. “Your Majesty, Your Grace,” she says, “status report from Daphnel, sirs! Late in the evening, I observed movement from forces coming from the southeast toward Ailell. They appeared to be stationing themselves in a small fortress near the mouth of the valley.”

Rodrigue strokes his mustache along either side of his mouth. “It seems that they may be anticipating Galatean reinforcements, if they are setting up a station near Ailell. Ingrid, does their pace match your expectations from your meeting with the Alliance?”

Ingrid nods. “Duke Riegan mentioned that the Adrestian advance might be delayed by a day or so. Something about Count Gloucester engaging the emperor in diplomacy. I do wonder if the Imperial army has taken up refuge in any fortified townships. We had discussed that as a possibility.”

Dimitri scoffs. “Claude always did have a penchant for tricks. However, he may have inexplicably laid a golden opportunity at my feet. The Imperials are holed up in a fortress like rats. And what better way to deal with rats than extermination?”

“The boar is right, for once,” Felix remarks. “Strike first. Swift, strong, decisive. Their army will be in tatters.”

“But that leaves the guard camp on the other side of the border to consider,” Rodrigue states. “If we’re to march into Leicester today, then they must be dealt with. Your Majesty, I will leave the decision to you.”

Felix folds his arms over his chest. “Stop wasting your time. Asking a wild animal if he’d chase his prey is a fool’s errand.”

Rodrigue glares at him.

Dimitri snickers. “The answer is simple. We eliminate whatever defenses they’ve stationed at the border and begin our march from there on the morrow. Send the Galatean Knights forward to ensure we leave on time, if you must. The rats are in reach, and I will not permit them to slither away back into the depths of Adrestia.”

“Your Majesty,” Ingrid starts, “with my utmost respect, we can’t just fly into Leicester airspace in broad daylight with banners raised! The Adrestians are careful; they will certainly have their scouts eyeing the skies, ready to report back to the main camp on the first sight of us.”

“Fly under the cover of night,” Dimitri says with a snort, turning back to his tent with a flourish of his cloak. “Accept whatever losses we incur. Tear the banners from your saddles, for all I care. Whatever needs to be done to bring me eye-to-eye with the witch in combat. Let us cease this idle pratter and take action.” With that, he slinks away into the dark confines of his tent, leaving the remaining Faerghus officers collected in the morning sun.

Ingrid sighs. “Are we going to address his behavior at some point, or stand by and watch as he slithers further into the dark?”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Felix says. “This is his true state. Little more than a crazed, bloodthirsty beast. Until he finds a way to cope with his own lust for revenge, this is all he’ll ever be, and we’ll have to work past it.”

“We should determine our plan for our advance into Leicester,” Rodrigue says, clearing his throat. “I cannot condone the stripping of our banners, but I agree with Dimitri. I’m not one to stand idly by and wait for another opening. If the empire is in our way, then we are forced to make one. Ingrid, how soon could you guide the Galatean knights into battle?”

Ingrid ponders the question, tapping at her cheek with her knuckles. “An hour, perhaps two, at most? They should all be awake by this hour. A bit of time for breakfast, and…”

“Sending the Galateans against a fortress near Ailell in broad daylight is suicide,” Felix snaps. “The empire wouldn’t take up a position there unless they were anxious about us coming over the mountains and prepared for aerial attacks. But with Derdriu on the horizon, it can’t be strongly garrisoned. It’ll be lightly guarded against an infantry attack, at best. Take the army through Ailell and run them over. It’s obvious.”

“And run the risk of exhausting our soldiers before they can recover from the valley’s heat?” Ingrid asks.

Rodrigue furrows his brow. “I won’t endanger the health of our troops with such a reckless strategy. A full-frontal attack would require too many resources and allow their forces to dispatch a messenger to the main camp. We  _ must _ take the fortress knowing that they will be unable to send sufficient warning.”

Felix beats his fist against his chest. “Then send me in with the Galateans. Fly low through the mountains, and we can get through unnoticed. Drop me near the fortress, and I’ll infiltrate the station by nightfall to give an opening for the rest of the knights to fly in and clean them out.”

Ingrid’s eyes widen. “Felix, could you  _ possibly _ be more reckless? For all of your talk earlier about overconfidence.”

He glares at her with narrowed eyes. “Do you have a better suggestion, or are you going to keep blathering about our lack of options? They’ll be at their most vulnerable as the sun sets.  _ That _ must be when we strike.”

Ingrid sighs and shakes her head before turning to the duke. “Rodrigue, you’re acting commander here. Do you think it’ll work?”

Rodrigue runs his fingers over his moustache. “It may be our best option. How experienced are the Galateans with flying unseen in the mountains?”

“Experienced enough,” Ingrid remarks.

Rodrigue nods. “Very well, then. Let’s move. We’ll run the risk of revealing ourselves to the empire ahead of schedule, but I’m afraid that it cannot be helped. Felix, make whatever preparations you need. Ingrid, ready the Galateans. Our goal is to capture the fortress quietly and subdue any who may deliver word of the attack to the Adrestian camp. Take prisoners where possible, kill only as needed. Am I clear?”

Felix puffs out his chest. “Crystal, old man.”

Ingrid offers a salute. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll report back in half an hour at maximum.”

“I’ll deliver the command to our infantry and sorcery divisions,” Rodrigue says. “We’ll begin our march through Ailell by lunch. Dismissed.”

* * *

_ 24th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186  
Dusk  
Daphnel Fortress, Ailell _

He had been studying their movements for the past hour or two, looking for weaknesses in their routine. From their watch patterns, he had determined a few blind spots along the ramparts, just beneath the towers along the southern wall. With the sun setting to the west, a rotation of the guard should be happening soon; that would be his moment to strike. The archers in the battlements should be his first priority.

Felix digs into his satchel for any morsels of food to quell a pang of hunger. He had had little space to pack anything resembling a proper meal, aside from the scraps of bread which he had downed earlier. Digging past his other supplies -- a flare to signal the Galateans, a spare shred of cloth, a vial of noxious liquid given to him by the sorcery division, and a piece of flint -- he finds a small pouch of pine nuts and shovels a handful into his mouth. Scarfing them down quickly, he returns to his watch.

The standing guard turns his back and takes a seat, rummaging through his bag for a pipe and a small bag of tobacco.

_ ...what?  _ Felix says to himself.  _ Is he a fool? _

A flame flickers in the tower. The sun had yet to set. _That is no torch_, Felix continues in his head. The guard keeps his back turned, even appearing to take a seat near the tower’s window. Night had not yet come, but this could be his chance. Felix leans forward. His fingers press against the earth, and his body tenses like a loaded spring. He pounces, sprinting with all the speed that he can muster. Once he reaches the stone wall, he slinks his body flush against its surface and into the blind spot.

Felix pulls the length of rope from his back. Thick, tightly twined, and bearing a weighted hook which dangles from one end, it had been specially fashioned for bearing his weight. He twirls the hook in the air to collect momentum before flinging it skyward. The hook finds its mark, quietly clanking against the tower’s inner guard chamber as it secures itself. Felix draws one of his swords, clutches it in his teeth by the blade, tugs on the rope as a test, and begins his rapid ascent up the tower wall.

The clinking sound alerts the guard. He drops his pipe at once and draws his bow. Squatting low, he approaches the window, nocking an arrow from his quiver and drawing his bowstring taut.

By the time he can aim over the sill of the window, Felix reaches the top.

A flash of steel streaks through the air, and a pressure digs into the guard’s stomach. Adrenaline surges through his veins, and he releases his bowstring in a wild shot. The arrow whistles past Felix’s body with inches to spare, and Felix twists his blade deeper into the guard’s gut.

The scent of blood stains the air. Felix pulls himself over the window sill just as the guard slinks forward, falling unconscious in shock. He retrieves his blade, shaking it gently of excess blood. He frowns. Rodrigue’s order rings in his ear, fresh on his mind.  _ “Subdue as many as you can; kill as few as possible. I will not have us stooping to the Empire’s methods and slaughtering enemy troops wholesale.” _ Felix scoffs. So much for that plan. At this hour, the Galateans would be arriving soon. Time was now too precious to avoid any killing.

_ What to do with the body?  _ he asks himself.  _ Nighttime rotation will come soon… Tossing it over the wall will just risk drawing alarm from the outer patrols. I suppose I’m on a time limit. Time to get to work. _

He leans the body against the wall and races through his plan of attack. Ingrid had been direct with him on what she would need to break through with the Galateans: dispatch any and all archers along the outer walls to eliminate first responders to a pegasus attack, then work down into the center. Once their defenses against the sky had been eliminated, the Galateans would be free to swoop in with support against the ground troops.

The Adrestian rotations had seemed simple enough to Felix as he observed them through the afternoon. The fresh guard would arrive and take his post, dismissing the old to begin a patrol along the ramparts, rotating counter-clockwise to the next tower. They had been tight with their timings, as if orchestrated to rotate each tower simultaneously. So, how best to handle that? Maybe he would have to…

“Hey!”

The voice rings in Felix’s ears. A guard meets his gaze, arrow nocked and drawn at the ready.  _ There’s the rotation. So much for subtlety. _

“Hands where I can see ‘em!”

Felix raises his hands, sword still clutched in his grip.

“Drop the weapon!”

“You’ll have to forgive me for refusing,” Felix replies.

A faint twitch of sinew in the patrol’s forearm signals his move.

Felix falls to his knees. The arrow flies above his face, fletching whistling by in a blur. Now safe, he swings back to his feet and leaps forward, swiping his blade across the guard’s exposed neck. Blood drips from the wound, and the guard reaches for his neck with a gasp as he struggles to find air. Seizing the moment, Felix silences his victim with a forward stab into the guard’s chest. The guard coughs and chokes in agony as he slumps to the floor, droplets of blood falling to the floor as his consciousness fades.

Felix rolls his eyes.  _ The fool had a chance to shoot while my guard was down, _ he says to himself silently while adjusting his gloves, an idle task while he outlines his strategy. With one tower completely eliminated, the final patrols along the walls would surely discover his kill. He would need to dispatch those first before proceeding to the ground level.

Western patrol first, he decides. Rotate along the northern wall from there. The guards from the southern patrol will find his kill and alert the fortress, but -- if he works quickly -- by then it will be too late.

The door to the northwestern tower swings open. Felix lunges. Before the patrolman can process Felix’s approach, the blade slashes downward. The cut is clean, eliciting little pain before the second slash comes across his gut. A sudden weakness overwhelms the patrol, and he falls onto his knees as his body falls into shock.

Felix hurdles over the slumping body. The freshly-rotated guard reaches for a trumpet hung on his left hip. Felix aims for the wrist with his next slash. His muscles flood with a burst of strength, and his weapon glimmers as it resonates in turn with the power of his birthright.

The swipe of steel sings in the air. The trumpet falls to the floor with a clang, as does the guard’s dismembered hand. Another slash dispatches him.

Second tower down. “No more time to be sneaky,” Felix mutters.

As he traverses the northern wall of the fortress, the next patrolman spots Felix. The patrolman takes aim with his weapon, but meets the same end as his fellow guards. Two swift cuts across his torso elicit a sharp scream before Felix silences him with a finishing plunge into his back. As the cry echoes across the garrison, the northeastern tower guard races for the eastern wall. He retrieves his trumpet, and blares a warning signal.

“Out of time,” Felix says between panting breaths. He reaches into his satchel for the flare and slice of flint. A few strikes of the stone against his blade draw sparks. He aims them at the fuse of the flare, and plants it right-side-up along the floor of the rampart. Leaving it behind, he continues his advance, swinging through to the eastern wall, hopefully where he would dispatch the remaining archers.

The flare fires into the air from its planted location. As the fuse expires mid-air, the signal explodes in a faint flash of light amid the starlit indigo veil of night.

A horn blares from the ground below. Troops scramble, their voices ringing in a soft din as they equip themselves for battle.

The pair of archers from the remaining tower stand shoulder to shoulder with their arrows drawn. Felix holds his sword upright, the tip of his blade pointing toward the sky. Their arrows slice through the air; Felix leaps forward, rolling beneath them across the rampart before springing to his feet again just beneath the patrol. A slash of his blade rolls across a weak point in their armor along their ankles, and they fall to their knees, leaving them open to a final blow across the backs of their necks.

Felix revels in his victory, albeit dissatisfied with the lack of challenge. Walls all cleared of patrolmen. Flare set and fired. The Galateans would be arriving soon to clean up the ground forces. He cleans his blade of blood with a wipe across his tunic and sheathes the weapon away.

Hooves beat against the road on the earth below. Felix’s ears perk, and he sprints for the inner wall in a panic. As he peers over the wall into the fortress, he spots a mounted horse picking up its pace as it nears the gate. The jockey is lightly armored, clothed in a material that looks almost like leather.  _ A messenger?  _ he supposes.  _ Headed back for the main camp, I bet. Can’t let him get away that easily… _

He waits for a few seconds, yet they pass by like minutes. Felix holds his aim steady for another kill. His arm quivers under the strain as his nerves rattle. One final test loomed before he could mark his mission as a success.

The horse appears past the gate, muted under the cover of night in his field of vision as it makes for the road. Dimly lit torches near the gate narrowly betray its advance.

Felix lets the arrow loose. It flies true, and the steel-tipped head pierces the messenger’s side through his leather tunic. The messenger reaches for the arrow, grimacing as he tries to wrest it free to patch up the wound. In doing so, he loses his balance and falls from his steed to the ground. The horse continues along its gallop without him, leaving him slumped amid grass and dust.

“No hard feelings,” Felix whispers to himself, lowering his drawn bow. “Just can’t let you spoil the plan.”

A gust of air beats against Felix’s skull from above. He turns his attention skyward. Pegasi beat their wings overhead as they angle to dive into the fortress below.

The Galateans had arrived.

* * *

_ 24th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186  
_ Late Night  
Daphnel Fortress, Ailell _ _

__

Dimitri paces before his prey, brooding as he contemplates his next move. Rage seethes from his pores, manifesting as droplets of sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes narrow and swirl with a furious tempest at the sight of his victim. The leather in his gloves squeals as he tightens his grip on his lance. “I’m in no mood for games, Imperial rat,” he barks with a snarl. “Tell me where the nest is.”

__

The Imperial officer, dressed in naught but the tattered rags of a prisoner -- swallows a lump in his throat. “I’ve my duty to attend to, Your Majesty,” he says in desperation, tugging gently at his bindings to the pillar against his back. “I cannot answer that question, lest I be branded a traitor.”

__

Dimitri’s hand reaches for the officer’s chin, his grip tight enough that the officer could feel his jawbones creaking under the strain. A flick of Dimitri’s wrist locks their gazes on one another. Strands of oily blonde hair dangle in the centimeters between their noses. The stench of a few days’ march lingers in the air, pungent enough that one could imagine their tongue running along Dimitri’s skin. The king’s eyes mellow into a dispassionate emptiness. “In siding with that witch,” he growls, “you are already a traitor to Fódlan and to the Church of Seiros.”

__

The officer stifles a retch from the wafting odor of Dimitri’s breath, and his eyes quiver; Dimitri smells his fear. “I am… I am not so easily intimidated by you,” he whispers.

__

A crooked smile forms on Dimitri’s lips. He shoves the officer’s face away. “Your talk is meaningless,” he says. “Cornered animals will take whatever measures they can to ensure their survival. If you won’t talk under normal means, then I shall just have to corner you.” He reaches for the officer’s right arm tied behind the back, taking it into his off-hand grip with the same strength shown earlier to the man’s jaw. A simple squeeze is more than enough to draw a sharp breath from the Imperial. “Would you like to keep your arm, Commander?” Dimitri asks. “All it takes in exchange is what you know.”

__

The officer opens his mouth to speak, but can only scream under the pressure. Dimitri digs deep into the recesses of his heart. Voices cry out to him from the void, audible in his own ears yet silent to all else.  _ “He must pay for his crimes! For those he has slaughtered on their march!”  _ An inhumane strength floods Dimitri’s muscles. His pupils flicker with rage. He does not wait for a response. Beneath the officer’s skin, he can feel the bone shatter like glass. A roiling cry fills the room as the Imperial’s muscles spasm under duress, and a searing pain shoots from his arm into the back of his brain.

__

The broken arm falls limp. “So sorry,” Dimitri says. A whisper of regret tints his voice. “I suppose I don’t know my own strength. Well, Commander? Are you willing to have a little chat?”

__

The officer grits his teeth together to bear the brunt of his pain. He snarls, foaming at the mouth in frustration as adrenaline tends to his wound. “You are a deranged man.”

__

Dimitri laughs. “Is that so? Am I deranged, or has the world become so deranged to force me to these means?” Turning on his heels, Dimitri takes a few paces back toward the entrance. He raises his lance, pointing the tip of it at the Imperial officer’s chest. The spearhead of Areadbhar glows amid the dim candlelight of their chamber. The stone socketed in its neck resonates with Dimitri’s Crest. “This is your last chance, Commander. Tell me where the rats have built their nest, and I will consider allowing you to return home as a broken husk of a man. Decline, and you will have dug your own grave.”

__

The officer’s eyes sink into his skull. His heart pounds in his chest, ricocheting against his ribs as it threatens to leap into his throat. “You would kill a man merely serving a duty to his country?” he pleads. “We are  _ at war _ , Your Majesty!”

__

“A pitiful excuse to justify your own depravity to the corpses which lay at your feet. Now.” Dimitri takes a single swipe across the man’s torso, drawing a cut in his tunic from his right shoulder to the bottom of his sternum. Droplets of blood fall from Areadbhar, and a faint red line stains the officer’s fair skin. He winces, clenching his jaw to bear the burning cries of the laceration.

__

Dimitri draws closer once more before he speaks. “Tell me where the other rats are hiding.”

__

The officer remains silent.

__

Dimitri grunts in disapproval. “Lost your arm, your blood, your dignity… and I see that I’ve still yet to properly corner you. So be it.” His greaves clank against the stone floor of the chamber, the sound echoing in the officer’s ears as his senses heightened. Dimitri reassumes his threatening posture, extending his lance with its tip pointed at the existing wound. “I suppose some animals crave the taste of their own blood.”

__

Areadbhar falls through the air with a hissing slash. Its edge traces a fiery line of pain across the officer’s abdomen. The smell of blood fills the air. Caught off-guard, the officer’s scream reverberates through the chamber walls.

__

Outside the chamber, Ingrid stands guard. Her eyes clamp shut at the sounds coming from inside. She holds her lips tightly sealed together with her front teeth, as if focusing on the pain could bring her some refuge. This could not be the Dimitri that she remembered from her childhood. This could not be the Dimitri that she remembered from not more than a month ago, when she had last seen him before being dispatched on patrol. Since the tragedy, he had been a troubled man, but his heart remained kind. How could he sink into a darkness like this?

__

Ingrid hangs her head and shakes it softly. Her breath grows stale in her lungs.

__

Her fellow guard -- a tall man of Duscur, dark of skin and white of hair -- takes note of her frustration. “Are you in pain, Lady Ingrid?” he asks. His voice booms through the hallways of the fortress.

__

“No, Dedue,” she says. “My apologies, it’s just that the sounds coming from that room rattle my nerves.”

__

Dedue re-focuses his attention forward, tucking his arms behind his back. “If you would like a moment of reprieve from our duty, then I shall not stop you,” he says.

__

Ingrid’s forehead wrinkles in bewilderment. “I’ll be fine, I promise. I could not imagine shirking my duties to His Majesty, though I may not agree with his methods.”

__

The pair stand in silence for a while. Ingrid meditates on her prior words. Did continuing to stand by as Dimitri sank into the darkness make her guilty by extension? The thought of expressing disdain toward him disgusts her. Another screech from the inner chamber reminds her of an equal disgust toward his present state.

__

“Dedue,” she says. “How do you find the strength to always support His Majesty, regardless of, well… his recent behavior?”

__

Dedue maintains his stone-faced composure. “I do not find strength,” he says. “I merely act as the weapon that he requires me to be. My will is his to use in whatever manner he sees fit. Such is my duty as his loyal servant.”

__

Ingrid scoffs. “So do you endorse the torture of that innocent man in there? I took you as a man of peace, Dedue, not as one who would condone such atrocities. I have no love for the empire, but he is merely a cog in their machine, not the source of His Majesty’s troubles. I fear that his judgment has become mired in his lust for revenge.”

__

“You are mistaken,” Dedue replies.

__

Ingrid lifts her head. “Am I?” she balks, words dripping with equal parts astonishment and disdain. “Tell me, then, just how a dear childhood friend could become such a monster!”

__

Dedue tilts his head to the side. The rest of his body remains perfectly still. “Do you not remember our time with him in the monastery?” he asks. “Think of how he treated our enemies. Not just  _ our _ enemies, but the enemies of our allies. Do you not remember when he offered to take up the sword in vengeance against those who slew the Captain of the Knights of Seiros?”

__

Ingrid wavers for a moment. “Yes,” she replies. “I do.”

__

“Therein lies the truth of who he is, and who he has been for as long as I have known him,” Dedue says, turning his head back into a resting position. The tone of his voice is soft, smooth, and unwavering, carrying a certainty in his words as if they might be some undeniable truth. “His Majesty is far too good-natured for his own good. He is so tortured by his compassion for the fallen that it drives him mad. Surely you must see it, too.”

__

“I… I can’t say that I do, no,” Ingrid says. “All I see is his slow descent into madness. You might think of this as his truest self, but I know him better.” A faint memory crawls into the forefront of her mind. Despite its age, it plays vividly before her eyes as if she were living it for the first time again. “When we were children,” she begins, “we would always play in the streets of Fhirdiad together. The five of us. Felix, as hot-headed as he was, always wanted to try out the results of his training on Sylvain. Dimitri, Glenn, and I, we would sit by and watch as they fought, as boys do.”

__

_ “He’s weak on his left flank, Felix!” the navy-haired boy to her left shouts, cupping his hands over his mouth. _

__

_ “Cover your guard, Sylvain!” the blonde-haired boy to her right replies. “You cannot let yourself become complacent!” _

__

Dedue stands silent.

__

“I do not know what happened to that innocent young man,” Ingrid continues. “It feels as if he has gone away, with only hints of him returning in times of peace.”

__

Dedue hums to himself. “I do not see why our views are incompatible with one another.”

__

Ingrid frowns, and her stomach sinks. She offers an exasperated breath, unsure of how she should feel about Dedue’s words. They offer no answers to her own quandary, only further questions. How could Dimitri be so compassionate as to circle around into this madness? The young boy that she knew all those years ago would never have fallen this far. “What if Felix is right? What if he’s become nothing more than a wild animal waiting to be put out of his own misery?”

__

“He is not,” Dedue states. “Lord Fraldarius is allowed his own opinions, but they are not fact. His Majesty will remain strong. Of that much, I am certain.”

__

“How can you know that?” Ingrid asks.

__

Silence lingers for a moment, though it feels like an eternity to Ingrid. “You must merely trust me,” Dedue remarks. “And, of course, trust His Majesty.”

__

Another vacant answer. Ingrid supposes that it would be as much as she could get out of the stone-faced man. She looks at the floor, pouting her lips. Perhaps, given time -- and given victory -- Dimitri would return to his normal self. She prays under her breath that it would come to pass.

__

The crash of wood against stone interrupts her train of thought, and the clank of Dimitri’s greaves rings clearly and unimpeded. His footsteps are slow and labored, and his shoulders hang with a great burden as he exits the chamber. He passes by his guards wordlessly at first. Ingrid cannot help but stare in astonishment at the sight of blood dripping from both Dimitri’s gauntlets and the head of Areadbhar.

__

“It is done,” Dimitri whispers with a crack in his voice. “The rats are to the southeast, nested in a small town near the Riegan border.”

__

Dedue bows in courtesy. “Understood, Your Majesty,” he says. “I shall deliver the word to Duke Fraldarius at once.”

__

Ingrid absentmindedly allows her eyes to wander into the now unoccupied chamber. To her horror, the officer lies dead slumped on the ground, his arms still bound behind the restraining post locking him in place. One arm lies twisted behind his back, and the other appears to be dislocated from his shoulder. His tunic is scattered across the floor in shreds of cloth. A collection of red lines streak across his torso in a variety of directions, leaving little hint of skin beneath a scarlet pool.

__

She retches. Grief for an unnecessary death swallows her heart. She forces herself to look away from the terrible scene, lest the grief consume her.

__

* * *

__

__ 25th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186  
Early Morning  
Daphnel Fortress, Ailell

__

Ingrid winces as a nurse cinches a fresh strap of cloth around her left forearm. During their siege on the fortress, she had thought that it had been little more than a light graze from a spear, just deep enough to make her feel pain. Such a wound could not stop her from powering through with a rush of adrenaline amid the flow of battle. She was wrong; it dug into her skin, oozing a slow, steady flow of blood which would not threaten her life, but still leave her weaker for the coming march.

__

“Are you well, Ingrid?” The voice from the entry into the ward squeaks like a mouse. The woman’s hair falls to her chin, held out of her eyes by a beret and shielded from the elements by a thin, translucent veil. Her persistent smile carries a warmth which Ingrid had found sorely lacking elsewhere in the army.

__

Ingrid beams at the familiar face. “Well enough, Mercedes. Your nurses have kept me in good care. How are the other Galateans doing?”

__

“The ones who were wounded are making a strong recovery. No deaths as of yet, not that I suspect any.”

__

The nurse rises from her chair after discarding the old, bloodstained cloth. “Lady Ingrid will be fine in a few days’ time,” she reports to Mercedes. “Should be able to restore her arm’s full strength by then.”

__

Mercedes clasps her hands loosely below her waist. “Good,” she replies. “Though, I’m required to ask how she’ll fare should we meet with the Imperials later today.”

__

The nurse shakes her head. “She may be able to fight, but I would not recommend it. Her arm will be too weak to properly grip her saddle.”

__

Ingrid bolts forward. “Excuse me?” she snaps. “I am a Knight of Faerghus. It is my  _ duty _ to fight for His Majesty until the end.”

__

“That may be true, but--”

__

Mercedes holds a hand up to cut off the attending nurse, who is appalled at the gesture. “Tend to the other sick and wounded, if you would,” Mercedes coos. “I’ll put the finishing touches on Lady Ingrid.”

__

The nurse collects herself, bows, and retreats into the hallway to look after her remaining patients on her rounds. Mercedes claims the empty seat next to Ingrid’s bed. She holds out a hand, motioning to the bandaged arm. “May I?” she asks.

__

Ingrid nods. Mercedes’s hands brush against her skin, their meeting textures like velvet against brick. Goosebumps crawl up Ingrid’s arm to meet a shiver tearing down her back. Such attention was an uncommon experience to her. While the nurse had been pointed, direct, and purely professional like so many others, Mercedes intimately explores the laceration with her fingers. A gentle pulse of magic echoes the muscles’ pain into her palm, forcing Mercedes to wince.

__

“He must have gotten you good, didn’t he?” Mercedes’s question strikes Ingrid as terribly informal, but she does not mind.

__

“Worse than I thought, at least,” Ingrid says. “Do you really think it’ll take a few days to fully heal? I would feel… remiss at not being able to lead the Galateans into battle.”

__

Mercedes exhales from a deep breath, letting the shared pain flow through her body. “The nurse overestimated. She’s just a little cautious, is all. A few sprinklings of healing magic throughout the day should have you up and running like new by tomorrow evening.”

__

Ingrid hangs her head. “I was afraid that you might say that. Guess I was a little careless. My attention lapsed for a split second and…” She snaps her fingers. “Now I’m stuck here.”

__

“Come now, Ingrid, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself. Negativity like that will only make the healing slow. You must have a bit of faith in yourself.”

__

“I have a duty to uphold, Mercedes. It is an  _ honor _ to serve under my family’s banner.”

__

“Would it be an honor to die under that banner?”

__

Ingrid ponders this for a moment. “If it meant carrying out my sworn creed, then yes. If it meant protecting my homeland and my family from the reach of the Empire? Yes.”

__

Mercedes frowns. “I’m not one to question your motives, but… If you want my thoughts on the matter, then it would be foolish to throw yourself into certain death when you might survive to fight another day. Your duty won’t carry you to a certain victory.” A final pulse of magic spreads from the tips of Mercedes’s fingers through Ingrid’s skin. Mercedes removes her hand and rises back to her feet. “I’ll inform the other nurses of your needs. For now, I need to finish helping Annie with preparing the sorcery divisions.”

__

Ingrid nods. She looks down at her bandaged arm and curls her hand into the tightest fist that she can muster. Her mind races through a thousand separate thoughts. Questions about her duty and how far she might go to fulfill it rise to the top. Mercedes was probably right. Charging into battle without a proper grip on her saddle could be the end of her. She owed more to those who had instilled that sense of duty in her. She owed more to Glenn, who had taught her the meaning of duty. She owed more to Sylvain, for when she would finally meet him on the other side of battle.

__

From the entryway, Mercedes looks back to Ingrid. Her eyes, once warm and inviting, now appear solemn and concerned. “Do try to rest, Ingrid,” she says. “A Knight who gets herself killed is of no use to anyone.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to take the opportunity to focus on Ingrid as our lens for viewing the happenings within the Faerghus army, since I feel like she's going to experience the most internal conflict over her sense of duty while watching her childhood friend -- and her sovereign king -- fall into madness. I think it works quite well!
> 
> The stage is now set. The Faerghus army has -- for all we/they know -- snuck into Alliance territory relatively undetected and determined the whereabouts of the Imperial army. The Imperials, of course, are spread thin around Daphnel's fortresses, and Sylvain and his company will be out on patrol for Ashe's final recon near Derdriu. It's time for a major conflict.


	12. The Final Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP 69420 word count, 2020 - 2020

_ 25th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186  
Midday  
Imperial Camp, Daphnel _

“Byleth, pour me another bowl of stew.” Edelgard covers her mouth with an open hand as she chews on a hunk of bread, presenting her bowl to me with the other.

“Pour it yourself!” I reply, slurping up a spoonful of my own. “It’s too cold for me to move my arms outside of this coat.”

Dorothea giggles. “Didn’t stop you at Garreg Mach, running around with your arms through those holes in the sleeves.” She takes another sip of her stew. “I’m surprised that you never turned a cold with that fashion sense.”

Edelgard pouts and shoves the empty bowl further into my face. “I  _ insist _ , Byleth _ . _ That’s an order.”

I glare at Edelgard with a furrowed brow as I turn my bowl up and swallow the last of my stew. “Just because you’re the emperor doesn’t mean you get to shove me around, y’know.” Just to drive the point home, I stand and make for the bubbling pot hanging over our campfire, ladling out another helping.

Her lips curl into a pout as I return to my seat with a fresh bowl. Dorothea and I each snicker at her expense.

The blare of a horn comes from the west and interrupts our playful banter. Edelgard perks up, looking toward the noise from her empty bowl almost immediately. “That sound…” she says.

“A patrol?” Dorothea remarks, setting down her dish. “It’s hours until dusk. This can’t be good news.”

“No, that’s coming from the northwest,” I say. “Can’t be from Sylvain’s patrol.”

Horseshoes beat against the dry earth from the north, their sound echoing through the camp. Horses were not supposed to be let inside the main camp, especially not this close to the central officers’ grounds. Our party collectively looks in the sound’s direction. A lightly armed man sits atop the galloping steed, waving to us with his free hand. “Captain!” he shouts. “Your Majesty!”

Edelgard sets her bowl down before standing to greet the incoming scout. “Afternoon, soldier,” she says. “I presume that this is urgent?”

The soldier nods, and his chest heaves between gasping breaths. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’m afraid that I bring terrible news. I’ve spotted banners to the northwest marching in our direction. They bear the Crests of the noble families of Faerghus!”

Edelgard’s eyes widen. “Faerghus?! From the northwest… how did they manage to march this far unseen?”

He shakes his head. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I cannot say for sure, merely what I saw with my own eyes.”

A snarl rumbles in Edelgard’s throat, and her fingers ball into a fist. “Dammit all… How large was their force? Could you see that much?”

“Their army is massive. Perhaps ten thousand strong, Your Majesty.”

Edelgard takes a deep breath for a moment before turning her face away. She pinches at the bridge of her nose in frustration.

I suppose I have to take over the report. “How far away were they when you first spotted them?” I ask.

“I rode back here as fast as my horse could allow, Captain,” he continues. “By my best estimate, I would put them at around forty kilometers away at the time. That was perhaps fifteen minutes past.”

I stroke my chin with a few fingers. “If they’re marching at a steady pace, then they could be here within six hours… depending on if they stop to rest.”

“They almost certainly will,” Dorothea explains. She turns her eyes upward toward the clouds. “They must have been marching for hours already, and they’ll need ample rest if they’re heading to our position.”

I look back at the patrol. “Do you have any details about their forces? Archery and mage divisions? Galatean pegasi?”

The patrol nods. “All of the above, Captain.”

Edelgard slips by us to take a seat by the fire.

“Thank you,” I reply. “I think that’s enough information for us to take action. Deliver your message to the remaining battalion officers still stationed in the camp. Tell them to mobilize their men for the possibility of battle or retreat and await further orders.”

He snaps a salute, perfectly upright in his posture. “Yes, Ma’am! Right away!” he announces before scurrying away.

Behind us, Edelgard sits where we once ate. Her fingers work at her temples in slow circles. I take a seat next to her; Dorothea claims the opposite side.

“Edie,” Dorothea begins, putting a hand on Edelgard’s leg to draw her attention away, “you holding up okay?”

At once, Edelgard lifts her chin. She sucks in a deep breath. “Yes, of course. I just… needed a moment. My apologies.”

Dorothea frowns at me. I shake my head in reply. What am I supposed to do? Faerghus would soon be on our doorstep. We’ve no time to sit idly and help unpack whatever trauma Edelgard might be choosing to bottle up for the time being.

I turn to Edelgard. “Do you think we were set up?” I ask. “Lorenz was confident that we would meet little resistance in Daphnel. It lines up too well.”

Edelgard sighs before rising to her feet. “I do not know for sure. Regardless, now is not the time for us to be discussing politics. We have an army to prepare, and we’re already short our usual field marshal, his personal regiment, and our ranger-captain.” Her eyes dart to affix on mine; they glow with determination. “Well, Byleth? You’re interim marshal. We need to formulate a plan of attack.”

Right. That. In the moment, I’d almost forgotten. “We’ve six hours to prepare? That’s barely enough time to rally the men on hand, and from the sound of it we are easily outnumbered. We’ll need to recall our patrols in the field… Could we use the town’s battlements? We promised that we would not bring them conflict, and yet…”

“It’s regrettable, yes,” Edelgard continues in my stead. “Sadly, I don’t see any other course of action. Against an army the size of this one from Faerghus, we’ll stand little chance without fortifications. Dorothea? Would you assist me on a journey to the town? We’ll need to deliver word of the incoming attack. I think it best that they hear it from myself.”

Dorothea nods. “Of course. But what about Byleth?”

My shoulders fall lax. “I’ll need to stay behind and start organizing men, I suppose. Are we even confident that we could push back Faerghus’s troops? I don’t want to be the negative voice, but--”

Edelgard glares at me. “Our forces are weaker than the attack on Myrddin, but only because we have spread ourselves so thin across Daphnel. This was a calculated risk that we took, and I won’t allow us to abandon our position here at the first sign of danger. Regardless, it is only for a short time.”

“Do we even know when Sylvain’ll be back?” Dorothea asks with a frown.

Edelgard replies, “At best around dusk, with Ashe in tow. We’ll have to hold out until then.”

“What about the reserve units?” I ask. “Shouldn’t they be arriving from the rear tonight? Faerghus will probably be standing in their way, and they could attack from behind. They may not be ready to fight so soon after a long day’s march, but we could send a messenger to the southwest to urge them to advance. I’m sure that they’ll fight as needed.”

“Good idea,” Dorothea remarks. “I’ll arrange for that before we leave. Edie, I’m bringing the sorcery division with us. If we’re going to set up shop there, then we’ll need to start drawing ward lines.”

Edelgard nods. “Of course. Byleth, you know your duties. Rally the infantry that we still have on hand for battle. I’ll assume direct command of the Imperial Guard. I refuse to entertain the thought of a pre-emptive retreat. We will stand and fight. Understood?”

I cannot stifle my lips from curling into a smirk. “You always were the confident type.” I offer a salute. The behavior is uncharacteristic of me, but -- now more than ever -- I figure that Edelgard needs me to be a proper leader. “Understood, Your Majesty.”

Edelgard smiles in return. “Excellent. I would expect no less.”

* * *

_ 25th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186  
Late Afternoon  
Adrestian Reserve Lines _

Leonie sharpens the head of an arrow from her quiver with a slice of flint. Sparks dance in the wake of each swipe of the whetstone across the edges. She tests the edge with a trace of her finger, light enough to avoid any cuts yet heavy enough to judge her work. She tucks the whestone between her jaws before nocking the arrow. With a draw of the string, she aims for an invisible target past the horizon. A straight sight down the arrow's shaft. Satisfactory enough.

“You really do never stop testing your weapons, do you?”

Leonie slacks her bowstring and lets the weapon come to rest, pointed at the ground and held below her waist. “Lys, please. What do you expect from me? I’ve gotta stay in tip-top shape if I’m gonna be of use around here, and that means my equipment, too!”

Lysithea folds her arms across her chest. “‘Tip-top shape’ or not, you'll have to quit your dawdling for now. We've a messenger from the front army.”

Leonie raises her brow and stows her weapon. “A messenger? Does that happen often?”

“Often enough, but this one swears that his message is urgent. Come, Caspar is waiting on us.”

Three days had passed since Leonie had found herself fortunate enough to stumble across Lysithea's forces marching to join with Caspar's reinforcement line from Myrddin. True to her own expectations, Caspar and the other Adrestians had proven skeptical of her allegiance. Lysithea's sympathy toward a former classmate had found her a place alongside the army, at least for the time being. Leonie had anticipated needing to prove herself in a fight against her own countrymen, as sick as the thought may have been. Still, she saw few other options for finding Byleth.

The two women make for the northern gate of the dismantled camp, where Caspar waves them down. “‘bout time you two showed!” he bellows.

The man standing next to Caspar fixes his gaze on Leonie, scanning her in curiosity. He detects a few trace hints of Leicester paraphernalia remaining on her person: the style of her garb and the embossments on her shoulder plates, in particular. “Is she...?” he remarks.

Caspar anticipates the question and elbows their guest in his side. A hard glare silences him. “I was about to hear the man out without you two!” Caspar continues with a cheery expression. “Afraid you'd gotten lost or somethin’.”

“I’m more than capable of handling myself,” Lysithea bites. “Or did you forget who had to come crashing into your tent last night over a  _ spooky sound _ ?”

Caspar throws his hands behind his head, and a flush of red tints his cheeks. “...let's not get into particulars, yeah? We've got bigger fish to fry.”

Leonie glances at the unknown man. His lightly plated armor bears a handful of honors, yet he still bears the helmet of a common footsoldier, minus the trademark visor covering his eyes. A scout, perhaps? Or could just be a particularly talented rising soldier. Either description could fit, nor did his accompanying horse discount either possibility.

“If I may,” he says. “I do insist, it's quite urgent.”

Lysithea drops her aggressive stance. “Of course. What word comes from the front lines?”

The soldier clears his throat. “I have been sent by Lady Arnault on behalf of Captain Eisner from the leading army,” he begins. “Faerghus approaches the Imperial camp in Daphnel.”

Lysithea's eyes widen. “Faerghus? Already?”

“Yes, milady. Captain Eisner and Her Majesty the Emperor formally request expedited reinforcements from these divisions.”

Leonie hangs her head and pinches the bridge of her nose.

Caspar takes note. “You know somethin’, straggler?” he asks, hand on his hip.

“I heard only the tail of a private conversation Claude had with Judith.” Her nails dig into flesh in frustration. “It was just before I met with him to resign from my post. He asked her to make for Faerghus, to ask for assistance in defending Derdriu. But that was not even two weeks ago…”

“We can argue about the details later,” Caspar replies. “From the sound of it, we don’t have any time to waste.”

“Caspar is right, I’m afraid,” Lysithea says. “We can count ourselves lucky that we are in a position to move. Let’s not squander that chance. Lives could be on the line!”

Leonie takes a deep breath and nods. Dread lingers on her heart, dread of a confrontation with which she had yet to fully grapple, dread of friends she might soon have to face. All of those feelings would have to wait for now.

“Let’s move!”

* * *

__ 25th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186  
Dusk  
Imperial Camp, Daphnel

“The troops are ready, I take it?” Edelgard hoists her shield onto her back, shrugging her shoulders to adjust the brunt of its weight. She reaches for a leather scabbard lying across a trunk which had been stowed in the corner of her tent. The scabbard carries a rapier; the guard is fashioned of silver wisps, elaborately coiling about the handle in a cradling nest of metal. Its pommel -- a ruby embedded in an eagle’s claw -- bears an etching of the Crest of Seiros. Edelgard fastens the scabbard to her left hip before reaching for her axe propper against the edge of the trunk.

My arms rest neatly folded across my chest, and my hips cock to one side in anticipation. “As ready as they’ll ever be, I suppose. All the patrols that we’ve sent out to the surrounding area have been recalled for the defense. What about the Imperial Guard and the townsfolk?”

The Crest Stone embedded in Aymr’s shoulder flickers to life at Edelgard’s touch. She runs her eyes across the weapon’s head, inspecting it for any flaws along the edge. “The Guard will have lost a touch of morale without their captain, but I fear that cannot be helped.” She swings the weapon with a broad, angular slash, bringing it to rest at her side in an open stance, pointed toward the earth.

What a strange demonstration of strength. Could you be any more dramatic, Edelgard? Not like I, of all people, need to be convinced.

“Come,” she says. She turns to face the opening of her tent. Her eyes burn with an unfamiliar, almost unrecognizable fire, like those of prey cornered by a hunter. Still, she holds her chin high, proud, the horns of her crown distinctive and commanding with a golden glimmer that matches the hue of her armor. The brim of her cloak billows behind her with each step, only impeded by the towering slab of metal on her back. “We’ve no time to waste standing here in idle chatter. We should make for the town’s interior. Who knows when our enemy will show themselves.”

I follow closely behind her lead. Much of the surrounding campgrounds have been packed up by now by my earlier commands, moving men-at-arms into the township’s walls. I try to keep my eyes and mind each focused forward, though the latter proves difficult. We are, truthfully, woefully unprepared for a full defensive action. Some of our units are still out in the field at their stations around Daphnel. Supplies and men are both low without our reinforcements. Still, I’m confident that we can prevail, and I hope that Edelgard believes the same. The goddess’s power will be instrumental. I can feel it.

“So, what about the townspeople?” I ask as we walk together, continuing my prior train of thought. It had been hours since we last spoke; they had flown by in a rush as I directed my focus on ensuring that all of our battalion officers left in the camp would be prepared for the coming siege.

“They’ve agreed to evacuate who they can to another nearby village to the northeast,” Edelgard replies. “Our remaining cavalry have been escorting them that way for the past hour or so.”

I tilt my head to the side. “You held up my end of the bargain for me, then? Shame, shame, Edelgard. I didn’t even get to revel in my own glory!”

“Executive decision,” she remarks with a snicker. “You’ll have to forgive me for taking a bit of liberty with your permission.”

I roll my eyes. Using my own words against me now? “Now is not the time for jokes!” Ugh, I sound like Sothis. “What if I had drawn up tactics with those cavalry in mind?”

Edelgard strikes the side of my arm with her elbow. “Since when are  _ you _ one to berate  _ me _ about the timing of jokes? In any case, they’ve already returned by now. They were gone for a few hours at most. I wouldn’t have borrowed them otherwise, and I wanted to make good on our promise that we would not involve these townspeople in our conflict.”

This is not a side of her that I’m used to seeing. She’s always felt… so calculating, like she’s been three steps ahead of every possible movement. Perhaps the current situation has caught her off-guard.

A pair of armed guards meet us on the northern edge of camp and right their posture as we approach. A raised hand puts them at ease, and we begin our march up the road to the town. “I assume Dorothea decided to stay behind?” I ask as we walk.

Edelgard replies, “She decided to oversee the conjuring of the warding spell along the town’s outer walls. I saw little reason to argue with her after we had concluded our business with the residents.”

“And is she certain that they’ll be able to hold whatever Faerghus throws at us?”

“You should know by now, Byleth, that certainty in war is a fool’s errand. We have been fortunate for our campaign to have gone as planned thus far. It was inevitable for us to meet a hurdle in the road. Though I do not know if even Hubert thought  _ this _ to be a possibility.” Edelgard looks at me after a pause. “Forgive me, I’ve let my thoughts wander again. Yes, Dorothea is quite confident. And, as you know, perfectly capable. She should be waiting for us in the town’s central square when we arrive.”

That same sense of dread from a few days prior begins to set in, coupled with a sinking pit in my stomach. Edelgard’s words from before certainly were no help. When was the last time that we had marched into a battle that we were unsure of? We expected a victory at Myrddin, even in spite of the extreme fortifications. None of the monastery ventures come to mind. The last time we were ambushed… would have been by Edelgard’s own forces in the Holy Tomb. The uncertainty terrifies me.

A number of soldiers scurry through the streets as we march into the center of town, sidestepping out of our path along the way. Bevies of archers and mages flit through the streets toward their stations along the northwestern side of the town. A few of the smiths from the town appear to have lingered behind, hammering out arrowheads in their forges with high-pitched clangs from their mallets. A view of the town walls shows a number of mages atop them as they continue conjuring a warding spell.

Officers have gathered in the center of town, true to Edelgard’s word. They stand huddled in small circles, each of the individual subgroups clamoring to themselves about the battle to come. One or two from each circle notice us, and the circles shift into a line of salutes shortly after. Standing alone, Dorothea sticks out among them with the burgundy color of her dress. She spots us soon after we reach the central square. The hem of her dress swishes to and fro mere centimeters above the ground as she walks. “Hey, you two,” she says calmly with a low tone in her voice. “Sure not how I expected our day to turn out. The warding spells should be done shortly.”

The Imperial Guardsmen pivot to the side of each of myself and Edelgard. “Thank you, Dorothea,” Edelgard says. “I assume that we’ve had no troubles evacuating the civilians?”

Dorothea shakes her head. “None, Edie, and all of our escorts have returned safely. Some of the conscripts have decided to stick around. Something about making sure we don’t rough up the place too badly.” Her smile stops at her lips, not reaching her eyes.

Edelgard turns her gaze on me. “Well, Byleth? Do we have any special defensive maneuvers for the siege?”

I reply, “So long as we’re prepared to deal with ranged fire and fortify the gates into the town, then there should be nothing out of the ordinary.” Looking ahead, I recognize a few of the core battalion leaders gathered among us. “Officers!” I bark, raising my voice to be heard further down the lines. “I want a run-down of each of your deployments. There cannot be  _ any _ weakness in our ranks, am I clear?”

One by one, the battalion leaders run through their prepared measures. Archery divisions -- as well as any able soldier with practical archery experience -- had been spread along each wall of the town, with most of the troops along the northwestern and southwestern ramparts. Edelgard frowned at the exposure of the eastern side, but was assured that no scouting reports had returned suggesting movement from Leicester forces to supplement Faerghus. Our stock of bows and arrows would run thin, but we would still be operating within our means. Mages would be set to join the archers once the warding spell had been completed. “No longer than a few more minutes, by my best guess,” Dorothea remarked on the topic. Armored knights were to be split: some would stand guard with their tower shields along the battlements to provide cover to our defensive units, while the rest would form up near the gates should they be breached.

Finally, after each of the officers had given their report, I look at Edelgard. “And what about you,  _ Your Majesty _ ?” I ask, placing a touch of playful emphasis on the honorific. It almost feels unnatural using it, considering how friendly we usually are to one another. “You  _ did _ say that you would assume formal command of the Imperial Guard.”

Edelgard brushes a stray strand of hair away from her face. “We will remain in the center of the city,” she says. “Should any of the main gates be in danger of breach, we will reinforce them with additional manpower as needed. And you,  _ Captain _ ?”

So, she noticed. “I’d prefer to be on the battlements with a bow of my own, if we’ve one to spare,” I say, looking to the captains of the archery battalions. “From the sound of it, they will take anyone who can fire an arrow in a straight line. I’ll be able to react more quickly up there, too.”

One of the three -- if I remember correctly, the one leading the northwestern defensive line -- bows. “We would be honored to have you join us, Captain,” he says. “I’ll see to supplying a weapon for you.”

“Perfect, then I’ll--”

The sound of a horn rings across the central square. The officers all stand at attention. Edelgard and I each look toward the sound’s source; it comes from the northwest.

“They’re here already?” Edelgard whispers. “Byleth. Go. All of you, get to your battalions! Scramble the falcons! Let’s move!”

We disperse. The archery division leaders run ahead, and I follow closely behind. So much for having a few more moments to prepare. Had the warding spell even been finished? Had all of our remaining infantry from the camp made it into the city walls? How long could we hold out? Could we survive until Caspar and Lysithea arrived? These questions ricocheted about in my skull as no answers came. Time was running out.

An orderly sort of chaos begins to roll through the town as men scramble for their positions either above along the ramparts or on the ground in wait. Armored feet thunder against the earth in a gentle roar amid the spouting of final preparatory orders from officers to soldiers. The archery officers lead the way through the sea of soldiers. A touch of sweat beads on my forehead while ascending staircases along the inner city walls to their peaks. At the top, an eerie calm greets us.

We make for the watch station perched atop the northern bartizan. A scout salutes us on our entry, still holding his spyglass in his free hand. “Sir!” he says. “...and the captain? It’s an honor, ma’am. Faerghus soldiers inbound!”

I quickly swallow a lump in my throat. “How far out?” I ask, admittedly struggling to bottle my own nerves.

“By their speed, they should be in range within the next fifteen minutes!”

Fifteen minutes left… I look to one of the archery officers who had led the way. “You mentioned a weapon? I’m not the  _ most _ practiced with a bow, but it’ll be more useful from this height than my sword.”

“Of course, ma’am! I’ll see what we can do!”

He scurries away. I turn back to the scout. “Any better word on their troop makeup?” I ask.

“Banners from Houses Blaiddyd, Gautier, Fraldarius, and Galatea were clearly visible,” he reports. “Faerghus appears to be pushing for a two-pronged assault. Their cavalry divisions were spotted heading to the south along with a single sorcery division. The rest of their army appears to be in standard formation. Armored infantry along their front lines, longbowmen and another sorcery division in the rear. Galatean aerial divisions incoming through the skies.”

I nod. “All as expected. We should be able to hold off their advances with appropriate firepower along the primary walls.” I turn to another of the archery officers. “Major, you’re in charge of the southern wall, yes? Spread any excess forces you can spare along the eastern side. I want us to be prepared for any Galatean pegasi trying to dive their way into the city from that angle should our falcons not catch them trying to slip through.”

“Understood,” he says before departing just like his colleague prior.

The scout seems to quiver in place in my presence. Poor kid. “Thank you for the report, soldier,” I say, bowing to him with one arm laid against my waist and the other tucked behind my back.

The officer of the northern wall and I part ways. I linger among the archers and mages stationed near the bartizan, waiting for him to return. The waiting had always been my least favorite part of battle, and I’m sure that it is no different for these men. A few minutes pass in relative silence as the rank and file hold their positions, agonizing over the wait for the Kingdom army to finally close in. I could find exhilaration in the act of battle itself, but standing around beforehand, waiting for the first blow to be struck or the first arrow to be fired… that wait had never been anything less than excruciating.

A hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “Captain,” the officer says, “it’s time to go.”

I suck in a fresh breath of air through a clenched jaw and nod.

The armored knights along the northern walls bang the bases of their shields in unison against the stone flooring as a rallying cry. We each take our stations among the other archers, claiming crenellations for a view into the field. In the distance, Faerghus’s army shows itself, marching forward at a steady pace exactly as described. Armored infantry in the front, aerial units above, not a single cavalry company in sight. They must have already swept around to the south.

I pull an arrow from the quiver hanging just above my blade. “Archers! At the ready!” My voice carries through the air, echoing off of the knights’ shields and out across the northern line.

“Nock!”

Faerghus’s banners rise among their lines in a proud display. The crashing of metal against the earth echoes from their front lines. A drum bangs a mellow rhythm in sync with each strike of their greaves against soil.

“Draw!”

The squealing sound of strained wood from each bow melds together into a cacophony all its own, drowned out by the pounding of my pulse and the coursing sound of rushing blood in my ears. The man to my left spouts the first cry of a war chant, and soon the other members of the line join him.

“Hold!”

Falcons flap their wings at our rear. The aerial knights climb into the clouds to meet their Galatean foes. Faerghus’s pegasi hover for a few moments before beginning their charge to initiate the battle for control over the skies.

This is it. No more chances at turning back. No more do-overs. Fend off these men for just a few hours and pray that our reserve units will be here in time. Hopefully, it will be enough.

“Release!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skipped last week! I wanted to put the final touches on the NEXT chapter before I put this one up, just so that I had everything established of what's to come in that one for continuity's sake.
> 
> I realize now after doing that that I have almost no way to actually communicate it when it happens; if you'd like to keep up with me and get notes on when it happens, I'll be posting those on my Twitter: https://twitter.com/LheaRachel
> 
> Bless y'all for putting up with me, it's been a slow burn building up to this battle and I'm glad that it's finally going to happen. I promise we'll get back to lots of juicy character-driven scenes after it!


	13. Waning Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faerghus lays siege to the Imperial stronghold in Daphnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, to one of the battles that I've wanted to write since I started planning out this journey with VoiceActress so long ago.
> 
> This one's long. Let's give it a whirl.

_ 25th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186  
Dusk  
Riegan Border _

__

Ashe sits beneath a solitary tree near the main road leading to Derdriu, working at an arrowhead with a small whetstone of quartz. His horse, its reins tied to the trunk of the tree, sweeps its front hooves against the grass. “Everything alright, buddy?” he asks, looking up from his handiwork. The horse does not reply, softly snorting and shaking its head. Ashe chuckles. “Suit yourself. I figured you might want to get out and about for a bit. I promise Sylvain’ll be here soon, and we can go for a nice, leisurely ride before nightfall.”

__

Dusk draws closer by the minute, his shadow growing long alongside the tree while he continues chipping at the arrowhead. After a while, the rhythmic sound of beating hooves draws his attention away from his arrow. He lifts his head toward the source of the sound, finding a familiar gray horse approaching him. Silver metal adorns its breast, head, and joints, decorated with scarlet cloth draped on either side of its legs.

__

Sylvain pulls his horse around with a tight clutch of its reins. “You’re here earlier than I expected,” he remarks.

__

Ashe smiles. “Derdriu is a lot closer than you might think it is,” he says. “I just like to overshoot when giving estimates to Edelgard. Figure she’d rather be surprised at an early return than disappointed at a later one.”

__

A symphony of clopping hooves come from the north, east, and south. Horses -- similarly clad to Sylvain’s -- coalesce at the designated gathering point. Sylvain takes the opportunity to leap from his mount and stretch out the weary muscles in his thighs.

__

The soldiers huddle around one another. “Anything looking out of the ordinary, fellas?” Sylvain asks, turning his gaze across each of them. “C’mon, let’s not all be shy, I don’t want to have to yank on your ears for a status report.”

__

One soldier takes the lead. “No unexpected movements from the northwest toward Derdriu, General. None that I’m sure the Ranger-Captain had not already seen.”

__

“You got anything to add onto that, Ashe?” Sylvain asks, looking over his shoulder.

__

Ashe shakes his head.

__

Another speaks. “Some movements of troops from the southwest. I presume that they are Goneril men, given their bright yellow banners.”

__

“Were you spotted?” Sylvain presses.

__

“No, sir, not that I could tell. If they did spot me, they paid me no mind.”

__

“Understood.” Sylvain turns his eyes among the other men. “Anyone else?”

__

The soldiers sit atop their horses in silence for a few moments.

__

Sylvain claps his hands together. “Excellent. Let’s saddle up and head back to camp. I won’t entertain it falling dark on us before we can get a hot meal in our mouths.”

__

The men return to conversing amongst themselves as they begin the journey up the road leading back into Daphnel territories. Ashe adjusts the straps on his quiver after stowing away his freshly-sharpened arrows. “Tomorrow’s really the day, isn’t it?” he asks after taking a deep breath.

__

Sylvain’s expression turns to stone. “Yeah,” he says. “I suppose it is. You feeling okay about it?”

__

“I’m holding up well enough, I suppose. Bothered, worried, but managing.” The two men mount their own steeds and spur them forward with a subtle kick of their heels. Sylvain’s men trot ahead in a tight line; Sylvain and Ashe bring up the rear side by side.

__

“Hard to believe we’ve come this far, isn’t it?” Sylvain asks over the roar of hooves pounding into the road.

__

Ashe’s ears perk to life. “What do you mean?” he asks.

__

“Think back to where you were this time five years ago,” Sylvain continues. “Could you imagine that we’d be where we are now?”

__

Ashe ponders the question. “Five years ago, we would have been students in Professor Byleth’s class,” he says. “I remember Dimitri was disappointed when we told him that we had decided to transfer after the mock battle at Gronder.”

__

“Disappointed is… one way to put it,” Sylvain replies. “He practically screamed my ear off about it. Said that I was letting myself get too enamored by the pretty lady, being a disgrace to my upbringing and my duty as a Faerghus noble. Said that I should be proud to be a Blue Lion.”

__

“Well? Do you think you should've?”

__

Sylvain chuckles. “I've never been one for what I  _ should _ do, Ashe. I'd hope you've realized that by now.”

__

“I was just curious,” Ashe says. “Sometimes I think about what Lonato would think seeing me where I am today. I wonder if he'd be proud of my choice to fight against the church like this.”

__

“Probably prouder than my old man.”

__

Ashe hangs his head. “Do you think that we made the right decision, Sylvain?” he asks.

__

Sylvain takes a deep breath. Did he? Maybe four years ago, he would have answered with a resounding yes. He had grown so accustomed to the silence of cold war since then that he was no longer sure. “I really ho--”

__

A rumbling sound from the northwest interrupts the train of thought. A long, low note rings through the air, only mellowed by how far it has traveled. Sylvain’s ears perk, and his pupils narrow. He directs his attention in the direction of the wail. The sharp sound echoes across the prairies separating Daphnel and Riegan territories.

__

Ashe darts upright, rustled by the sound. “Sylvain…,” he whispers. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

__

The sound rings again, the same pitch as before, yet louder, defiant, and proud.

__

A solemn, grim expression colors Sylvain’s face. His mouth hangs ajar for a moment as he struggles to speak. “I know that call. But the last time that I heard it was…” He looks to his right. His brow furrows, and his tone instantly sours. “Ashe. Let’s pick it up.”

__

Sylvain spurs his steed with a rallying cry and darts ahead at a full sprint. Ashe follows close behind, not bothering to question the order. Sylvain was seldom one to bite with that sort of tone, and Ashe knew better than to dispute it when it reared its head.

__

The general whips his horse with her reins. As the pair sprint ahead, they pass by the soldiers of Sylvain’s squadron. He slows his steed as he passes them by to issue his orders.

__

“All of you, let’s move!” he shouts. His voice booms like the sound of crashing thunder atop the thuds of hooves against the earth. “Faerghus incoming!”

__

* * *

__

The Faerghus front lines raise their shields in defense against our rain of arrows. The heads clang against their great slabs of steel, and the deafening sound rings far ahead to our line along the northern wall. My ears twitch at the sound, and I grit my teeth. I bark another command at once. “Nock!”

__

A suite of horns cry out in reply to our attack from the rear lines of the Kingdom army. The notes meld together into a somber, low-ringing melody. The front line of armored knights beat their weapons against their shields and bellow a rallying chant, joining with their buglers in an echoing chorus. With shields raised high, the first two lines begin their advance, protecting a third line of men which hoist tall ladders over their heads.

__

“Draw! Watch those men on the third and fourth ranks! Don’t let them get to the walls!”

__

Wood squeals as it stretches and buckles under the tension of a drawn bow. My fingers tremble. I hold the fletching tight against my cheek, taking aim for the third line. A squint draws my eyes into focus down the shaft of my arrow.

__

“Release!”

__

Another volley of arrows flies with a whistle as they each hunt for their quarry. A handful find their mark, piercing through a weak spot near the neck of the knights’ armor; the others collide with the front ranks’ shields and splinter against the bare metal. Undeterred by their losses, the Faerghus infantry continue their forward march. The fallen soldiers disappear into the river of men slogging ahead from their rear.

__

The faint smell of dry, combusting foliage burns in my nostrils. Far to the rear of Faerghus’s infantry, a sorcery division conjures an elemental storm. A fount of fire pools at their feet, swelling as they focus their energies. I bark the same order in each direction: “Longbowmen fire at will on their rear lines!”

__

Arrows ride through the sky in disarray. By the time the first to fly hits its peak, the mages have completed their spell, letting loose a torrent of flame upon the city walls. It roars against the stone. The flood splays in every direction and blocks our field of view. Men across the rampart take cover behind the battlements to protect themselves from the searing heat. The hairs on my arms rise in anticipation of a burning sensation, yet it never comes.

__

Of course. Dorothea’s ward. The spell dissipates, cut off from its source. One by one, each archer rises to his feet with arrows nocked. Granted a moment of reprieve from our volleys, the Faerghus lines storm ahead.

__

Thunder rumbles through a growing sea of dark clouds overhead moments before the first flash of lightning. The strikes cut into the first and second ranks of the Faerghus infantry with incredible precision. Screams of the fallen slice through the battlefield as more armored knights fall to their knees. Even so, the line continues its steady forward march, unwavering and resolute in their goal.

__

Wind gusts from the sky against our heads, forcing us to shield ourselves from the gale. A screeching neigh echoes. I shield my eyes against the wind and raise my bow overhead with an arrow drawn. My pulse accelerates, and time dilates in the rush. Aim locked. No hesitation. The pegasus shrieks in pain as it falls from the sky. It barrels over the ramparts in a frenzy, tumbling into the depths of the streets below, but not before her rider is able to leap to safety amid a bevy of hostile men. Disoriented, she stumbles to her feet, reaching for her sidearm in defiance. An archer from the northern tower quickly shoots her down with an arrow to the back of her calf, leaving her to be subdued by another footsoldier.

__

Another Galatean dives after her to threaten our position, but an Adrestian falcon swoops in to meet her in combat, driving her away. One of the officers to the north shouts, “Turn your bows skyward! Support our falcons! We mustn’t let them lose control of the skies!”

__

I turn my bow over the battlements, scanning for the nearest vulnerable Faerghus mage. There! A company to hunt down. Arrow after arrow fly in quick succession for my quarry. One mage, two, three incapacitated. The men to either side join in the hunt. Nothing but the advancing soldiers demand my attention. Orders flow from my lips like water, yet amidst the flow of battle, they come to me by instinct.

__

A shove on the shoulder breaks the trance after the next kill. “Captain!”

__

Behind me stands a messenger. He snaps a salute. “Lady Dorothea begs for your assistance on the southwestern battlements, ma’am,” he says. “The split Faerghus front is overwhelming our defenses. She requests immediate reinforcements from whatever the northwestern front can spare.”

__

A glance to the southwest shows faint hints of the siege. Fire rises above the battlements from below, thunder crashes against the warding barrier… She needed a messenger to send this to me? Or had I just missed an announcement from the western bartizan’s scouting troop? I don’t question the order, instead barking my final orders to the northwestern front. “Keep those mages in check! And don’t let the infantry reach the walls! You and your company, come with me.”

__

It's a short sprint from the center of the northwestern wall to the southwestern edge. The sight from before grows more vivid by the moment. A crowd of mages channel their aether into the translucent warding spell surrounding the town walls. Dorothea herself stands among them, hovering an inch above the ground, the hem of her dress rippling with the aether currents building beneath her feet. A swirling flame manifests in her open palm before she thrusts it toward the sky, just as we arrive to bask in the terror of her magic. The sky responds to her conjured flame with rolling dark clouds which part into a falling star. Red and orange streak through the violet backdrop of twilight along the falling star’s wake as it descends on a translucent warding wall already built around the forces in the distance.

__

The meteor crashes against the aetherial dome in the distance. A gale roars across the prairie separating us from their army, whipping my cloak in its clutches. Sparks dance across the surface of the Faerghus barrier. The priests trapped inside funnel more of their precious aether into the barrier. With each push forward from the crumbling meteor, the ward pushes back in stalemate. Under the growing pressure, the star splinters. Fragments rain from the rock’s edges, enveloped in flame as they tumble to the earth. Fire splays about the barrier’s surface. At last, the meteor breaks. Shards rain to the ground. A blazing ring ignites from the dry tinder surrounding the Faerghus forces, only held back by the priests’ efforts.

__

“Captain!” a scout proclaims. “A sage amid the Faerghus cavalry and sorcerers! Shoot her down!”

__

A humanoid shape dances within a circle of others like it, tracing runes about their feet. The center figure burns with a blazing aura, hurling spells in rapid succession at our wards. As far away as the figure is, their movements almost resemble a dance. Almost something… beautiful. A whip of something soft flows from the top of their head; is this sage a woman? I raise my bow to take aim, but her display of her command over the elements is enchanting.

__

“Byleth! Do something!”

__

Her aura flares into a blinding pillar of light. She pulls her arms into her chest… cupping the aura in her hands? And then, she fires.

__

A pillar of light descends from the same parting of the clouds which produced Dorothea’s falling star. It breaks through the weakened warding spell like a hot knife through fresh butter and strikes the exposed town wall with its full force. The impact echoes through the town, ricocheting off of buildings and reverberating through the alleyways. The stone structure buckles and collapses, opening a chasm in the wall.

__

I messed up. No, I can’t let that happen.

__

Click. For how long? Thirty seconds? A minute? Colors drain from the surrounding world as the events unfold in reverse. Each second of real time passes backwards at half of its normal speed. I settle for two minutes and click my molars against one another to return the flow of time to its normal state.

__

Dorothea hovers with her conjured flame in hand, thrusting it toward the sky. From the bartizans, Adrestian mages fire bolts of lightning.

__

I cannot hesitate this time. Cannot let myself be drawn in by an enchanting display. Have to do something, anything. “Archers, at the ready!” I raise my bow with the order, nocking and drawing an arrow aimed for the center of the Faerghus wards. The rear archery company disperses across the battlements. Strained wood squeals and drowns out the clash of spells in the burning nighttime air.

__

My vision of the far ranks narrows. “Release!”

__

Bowstrings spring back into form. Fletchings whistle. The sky parts under Dorothea’s spell. Faerghus sorcerors surrounding the central sage throw their arms up in reply, breaking their formation and hurling flame and wind to defend themselves from the coming rain. A few arrows break through their defense and sink into their skulls.

__

The central sage, however, continues her dance unimpeded.

__

“Draw! Fire at will!”

__

But the opportunity has already passed. She gathers her aura into her hands as before, and unleashes it in a focused blast against our fortifications. I click my teeth together; time stops. Surely there was a solution. Perhaps the wind could carry our arrows differently? But we had no time to adjust our aim. I would have to reverse the flow of time for another ten… maybe twenty minutes. I dare not strain myself like that when I’m needed.

__

We’ve just arrived at the southwestern wall. Perhaps a minute or two before the wall opens up. I turn to the messenger who had summoned us here. “You!” I bark. The tension in my forehead wells. I need to be careful with any future pulses. I can probably spare another three? Four if I’m lucky. “Go to the center of town. Find Her Majesty and have her direct the infantry to the southwestern front. Tell her to be ready for a cavalry charge. Go! Now!”

__

The messenger snaps a salute and scurries away.

__

“The rest of you, at the ready!” They disperse in the same formation along the battlements. I draw my arrow, and the archers follow suit. Even if we can’t stop that sage… even if fate wills our walls to come down, we can at least take a few of their forces out with them.

__

The scene plays out in the same manner. Arrows fly. Mages retaliate. Bodies fall. The sage fires, and the sound of her spell’s impact echoes through our ears. The wall crumbles to the south at the point of impact, amplifying the sound with buckling stone. I hope that Edelgard could be mobilized in time.

__

Dorothea rallies the mages, instructing a handful of them to maintain the ward and the rest to move toward the south to prepare for the defense at the chokepoint. Members of the company under my command mutter and fret amongst themselves. We’ve really no time for even the slightest hint of such fear. “To the south, let’s go!” I shout. “We’re not done yet -- for Adrestia, and for the emperor!”

__

Inspired by my rallying cry, the unit sprints ahead, their weapons drawn as they disperse across the southern half of the battlements near the crumbled wall. Dorothea traces a long, thick bridge of ice across the chasm separating the two broken halves of the rampart. I follow half of my men along it to take stations further to the southern bartizan.

__

Below, the Faerghus cavalry has begun their charge. Hooves of heavy cavalry beat against the earth, melding in a dreadful harmony with the clangs of steel plates against one another. My archers draw their arrows and take aim, their shoulders quivering in anticipation for the order to fire. I reach for my own arrow, nocking it and shouting to the men down each line: “Steady! Wait for their approach!”

__

The cavalry couch their lances and draw their blades. Standard bearers lift the banners of Blaiddyd and Fraldarius.

__

This is it. Now or never.

__

“Rele--”

__

A flash of steel. The squelch of pierced flesh. A fiery pain digs into my gut. My mind empties. The taste of rust. Weakness sets into my knees before I finally realize what has happened. The distressed cries of the surrounding men ring in my ears, but they are quickly silenced. I summon what little strength remains from my body and focus it all into another time reversal. Emerald strands tug at my periphery, the only remaining color in the world. Fifty seconds prior… sounds like enough.

__

Two pulses left, Byleth. Don’t squander them.

__

A phantom pain lingers where the wound once opened. I grit my teeth to bear it and drop my bow, reaching for the hilt of my blade. “Fire at will on the cavalry!” I bark as I draw my weapon into a guarded stance.

__

“…Captain?” one of them questions.

__

“Just do it!”

__

I run through the seconds in my head. Ten. I take a guarded stance. Five. No signs of movement. Yet.

__

Three. Two. One.

__

An archer along the battlements cries out in pain, followed by another in quick succession. And another.  _ And another. _

__

I look over my shoulder. The archers are huddled, bleeding out together.

__

The sound of a footstep against cobblestone alerts me to my foe’s attack. About-face. Not this time. The clang of steel rings across the battlefield. I hold my blade steady. My opponent pushes, and I push back, vying for position. Even with five years of age, the sight of raven hair and narrow yellow eyes is unmistakable.

__

“Professor,” my opponent remarks. “Nice to see you again.”

__

“Sure wish I could say the same of you, Felix,” I say with a snicker. “You almost caught me off-guard.”

__

“It’s all thanks to my training. And a bit of your guidance.” Felix pushes forward with a burst of strength, shoving the intersection of our blades a few inches from my nose. A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Student finally meets the master in battle. Part of me has been waiting for this since the day I met you. I was so sad that I wouldn’t get the chance after you disappeared.”

__

I drag my foot in a circle along the ground to sweep his legs. He senses my movement and retreats a few paces before reassuming his stance, holding the hilt of his weapon against his right cheek, tip of the blade aimed forward. I take a deep breath and brandish my own, holding it high in the air with an open guard.

__

Felix narrows his eyes. “No need for chitchat,” he says. “Come at me!”

__

An explosion of power floods my muscles. The world races forward in a surrounding blur, yet Felix’s movements reveal themselves as plain as day. He brings his blade down before his chest to intercept my first strike. The resulting clang of steel rings through the crisp air of night, uniquely loud even among the sounds of the battle raging below. Electric currents pulse from his eyes. Hot breath rushes through my lungs. Another aggressive slash. Felix falls back in an artful dodge, leaving my blade to cut through little more than empty air.

__

He springs from his hands back into an upright position. “That all you’ve got for me?” he chides. “You’re better than that. Or have you lost your luster over the last five years?”

__

Heat wells in my cheeks. A flick of the wrist extends the Sword of the Creator into an elegant whip of its segments. Siphoning a morsel of the goddess’s power, its glimmer radiates with a heavenly warmth like a beacon. The segments follow along a trail of steel as I raise my hand into the air and bring the whip crashing down with a scream. It carves a path through the rampart’s stone construction, hurling debris along its trajectory. Felix evades the first swipe with a short hop into the air and a side-step toward the battlements. The second swipe comes across and pins him against it. His eyes quiver and dilate, and a horrid squelch trails from his lips. I retract the whip back into a solid blade as he slumps to the floor.

__

“That a little more like what you expected?” I bark, admittedly a bit proud of how easy it had felt to subdue him.

__

Felix plunges his blade into the floor and climbs to his feet with a cough. “Yes, much,” he snarls. “My father was right to warn me not to underestimate you. But you’ve still grown weak.” He casually dusts off the front of his tunic and wipes a trickle of blood from his lip. Perhaps I was mistaken to show restraint. “You could have -- _should_ _have_ killed me right there. But you didn’t, and that’s why you’ll lose.”

__

I furrow my brow. “Forgive me for showing a bit of mercy to an old pupil. Would you rather I not hold back?”

__

“You’ve already proven that you can’t give me what I want.” Felix raises his blade back into a ready stance. “Luckily for you, I’m on express orders not to kill you. A shame, really. But I won’t need to use my full strength to defeat you. I’ve already seen it in the way you hesitate.”

__

I extend my blade into whip form again with another jerk of the arm. “Are you forgetting who you’re talking to?!”

__

“Not in the slightest,” he replies before pouncing with alarming speed, as if my last attack had barely fazed him. My blade retracts. Our weapons collide in another grating song of steel. A spark singes my cheek before the next slash screams across my abdomen, dragging a hot line of fire in its wake. Blood seeps from the wound, and my defensive instincts activate. The attack replays in slow motion.

__

I pivot my blade to block his follow-up, but a phantom pain burns through my gut. It flickers to life and vanishes over and over, dulling each time it returns yet still clearly lingering there, like the echoes of a shout through a lonely canyon. Another flash of steel glistens in faint moonlight, this time cutting its path across my right arm. The Sword of the Creator falls from my grip. I suck in a breath of air through a clenched jaw, covering the wound with my free hand. Intervention kicks in. The skin stitches itself back together. My weapon returns to my grip. Felix pulls his blade back from over his shoulder, only to meet another block.

__

He is  _ relentless _ . Every swing of his weapon carries behind it an inhuman aggression. The strikes become continuously harder to turn aside. Dammit, why can’t I find a place to break through him? How had he grown this strong? Was he stronger than even the goddess’s blessing?

__

“What’s the matter?” he taunts through a torrent of strikes. “Where’s that strength you were once so proud of?”

__

Where indeed? Had exhaustion gotten the better of me? How many pulses had I gone through? Three, maybe four. I’ve lost count.

__

Our weapons lock together, his blade caught beneath the guard of the Sword of the Creator. My free hand comes around in a fist, only to be caught in his palm. I twist to disarm him, but his grip is strong. He wrenches himself free, pirouettes, and… 

__

Another slash sneaks through my defenses. Another. Another. Each cut lights my body ablaze with a searing pain. My instincts kick in, but the well has run dry. No intervention comes. No, this is wrong. I refuse to accept this fate! Dig a little deeper, Byleth, surely you can find another…

__

Muscles too heavy. Head pounding from my excess. Eyes getting fuzzy. Fire trails across the wounds on my abdomen and each of my legs. I look for any last inkling of strength to turn back the hands of time, but find none. Too hard to focus… too hard to even stay on my feet. The stone of the ramparts scrapes across my knees, and I slump under the weight of my own failure like a sack of flesh and bone. Heat radiates from my body, and goosebumps rise across my skin.

__

What kind of cruel fate is this, Sothis?

__

How could your strength not be enough?

__

Alone again… am I going to die again?

__

As I slowly fade into the unconscious abyss, my senses dwindle. A tug on my arm. The absence of the earth beneath me. The faintest odor of burning air. And the crackling sound of thunder.

__

* * *

__

Aymr crashes through a soul foolish enough to challenge its wielder. The metal of his armor crumples under its weight like a slip of parchment meeting a kitchen knife. Edelgard retrieves her weapon from his chest and mutters a prayer to herself for his sacrifice. “May you find peace in what you fought for.” The cries of another Faerghus soldier challenge her. She beats back his blade with her great shield and repeats the same tedious effort of cutting him down. He falls to the earth with a silent thud.

__

Members of her Imperial Guard beat back the rabble in the streets with expertly measured strikes of their blades. The scent of fresh blood and sweat tickle at her nostrils, a sickening reminder of the cost of war. Above on the walls, Byleth continues her duel with the Faerghus challenger. Edelgard’s eyes narrow. “Fight hard, Byleth,” she whispers. “We’ll need you on the ground.” She tightens her grip on Aymr. Its warm reply brings her comfort amid the chaos as she returns to the fray.

__

“Your Majesty!” a voice calls to her. A lone horse gallops toward her, the eased pace of its clops like a symphony to her ears.

__

She sighs with relief. “Sylvain,” she says as he pulls his horse close to her. “You’re late. Where’s Ashe? And your men?”

__

“A thousand apologies, Your Majesty,” Sylvain replies, shaking his head in embarrassment. “We rode back as quickly as we could once we heard the horns blaring from the distance.”

__

“Save the excuses,” Edelgard snaps. “What’s our plan? As I’m sure you can see, the Kingdom soldiers are already among us.”

__

“Yeah, I’d gathered that. I’ve sent the rest of my men to the southeast. Ashe is with them. They’re securing a path along the Riegan-Goneril border to make our retreat.”

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Edelgard chews on her lower lip. Her forehead wrinkles in distress. “I suppose we’ve no choice. We should start to gather the remaining infantry on the ground. Rescue as many men as we can. I want our casualties minimized, understood?”

__

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

__

In the distance, perhaps ten meters away, a downward slash of gold dismantles one of the Imperial Guard. Red sparks fly from the point of contact and continue on a trail as the hot metal slices through the air. He cries out in pain before another attack penetrates his abdomen.

__

The scream draws Edelgard’s attention. Sylvain’s follows. Her eyes widen. That Relic…

__

The head of Areadbhar glimmers with the sheen of freshly drawn blood. The impaled Guard falls face-first in a dead slump to reveal his killer.

__

Dimitri retrieves his lance from the wound. “So,” he announces. “The queen of rats has finally shown herself from her crawlspace in Enbarr. And accompanied by her chief traitor.”

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Sylvain snarls. “You’re one to call a--”

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“Sylvain,” Edelgard bites. “Go. Gather what infantry you can. I’ll handle this.”

__

“Suit yourself,” Sylvain scoffs. “Don’t get yourself killed.” He couches the Lance of Ruin and rears his horse before riding toward the southwestern wall.

__

Edelgard, now alone, grits her teeth to beat back the tinge of fear hanging in her gut. “Never compare me to a rat,” she barks at Dimitri.

__

“I made no comparisons. I simply stated the truth.” Dimitri brandishes his lance before assuming his usual guarded stance, holding Areadbhar angled over his towering frame with its head hovering just above the earth. “Come, Edelgard. Let’s separate that sick head of yours from your shoulders.”

__

Edelgard raises her shield. The moonlight glistens against its surface, offering a dimly lit throughway street to serve as their battlefield. She tightens her grip against both the leather straps of her shield and Aymr’s throat.

__

The two rulers lock gazes from across their battlefield at one another even as the siege rages around them. Faerghus soldiers pour in through the opening in the city walls. Imperial knights raise their pikes in defense, and archers from the battlements above divert their attention between the pressure along the northern wall and suppressing the infiltrating forces. Men call out in a melting pot of emotions: terror, pride, pain, rage. Yet to each of Dimitri and Edelgard, it serves merely as a backdrop for their own conflict.

__

Dimitri makes the first move. He barrels forward in a hurried sprint before leaping ahead, bringing his lance across in a slash. Edelgard meets his attack with a shield raised overhead. Areadbhar strikes its surface with a burst of strength from Dimitri’s muscle, and Edelgard offers thanks for the Agarthium-reinforced structure. Her arm buckles under the sheer force for a moment before she can push back and shove him away. She retaliates with an upward slash of Aymr, trailing a path of crimson sparks behind the head of her weapon. Dimitri side-steps.

__

Edelgard continues her assault, aggressive with her attacks. Dimitri spaces himself from her reach, but she refuses to grant it to him. One slash of Aymr follows after another, each coupled with a brutal, thundering cry from her lungs. She pushes forward, forcing Dimitri to backstep. He digs his heel into the street and holds Areadbhar upright, blocking Aymr’s slash with its shaft. Edelgard pulls backward and lunges for the shaft with her free hand. Caught off guard, Dimitri succumbs, and a quick wrench pulls it from his grip.

__

Aymr comes from the opposite side. The sweat on Dimitri’s forehead boils. He blocks with a raised arm and holds Edelgard’s swing at bay, though the edge of her axe still digs through his armor. Blood oozes from his left arm. Called forth by his fury, his Crest floods his muscles with a burst of adrenaline. He hooks with his right arm. Bone collides with the steel of Edelgard’s armor, but steel gives way first. She stumbles, and Dimitri moves to exploit with a short jab, but Edelgard covers her frame with her shield before he can follow through.

__

Edelgard pants for air. The nighttime air, once crisp on the eve of battle, taints her tongue with the faintest hint of rust. The battle around them fades into the periphery. Where had Dimitri found such monstrous strength? She could not recall when they had last fought. Had he  _ always _ been this strong?

__

Dimitri recovers Areadbhar from the ground. “Well done,” he snarls. “You’ve proven yourself to be worth the wait. But surely you must grow tired. Would you prefer that we end this now and you simply choose your way to die?”

__

“You never were one for patience,” Edelgard quips through bated breath.

__

“Patience? What would patience grant me while Fódlan burns?”

__

“Patience might at least free you from the chains binding you to your own emotions.”

__

Dimitri cackles. “Better a man a slave to his own emotions than to withhold sympathy for his fellows. That is why I am here. To extend that sympathy. To quench that fire of yours, Edelgard, to mete out justice for all those you have slaughtered in the name of your precious ideals!”

__

Edelgard’s brow creases. She tightens her grip on Aymr. “You’ve gone mad. Look at yourself.”

__

“As if you are one to judge!” Dimitri barks.

__

Areadbhar glimmers in Dimitri’s grip, the Crest stone feeding on his welling rage. Power surges through his muscles with an electrifying intensity. He pounces, cloak billowing behind him. Edelgard raises her shield again. “You tried that once before,” she taunts from behind the slab of metal. The blade of Areadbhar digs into her shield, digging a shallow crevice into the steel surface along its path.

__

Edelgard summons her strength, swinging her shield out, exposing her body for a moment but driving Areadbhar away. Staggered, Dimitri’s eyes sink into his skull. Edelgard hurls Aymr around, hooking the heel of its blade across the shaft of Areadbhar and catching the spear in its maw. Now in full control, Edelgard tosses her elbow up into Dimitri’s lower jaw, then brings the pommel of her weapon down to discombobulate him.

__

Dimitri loses his balance and stumbles. He drives Areadbhar’s blade into the street. With it wedged between the cobblestones, he breaks the momentum of his fall to regain his footing. With a furious roar, he retaliates. He lunges for her dominant arm. His talons curl about her tiny wrist, and he twists it in his grip. Edelgard clenches her jaw shut and bares her teeth. Despite her best efforts, she cannot stifle the grunts of pain. Dimitri rises to his feet slowly, tightening his grip with every inch. Aymr falls to the floor with a clang, and Dimitri seizes his opportunity. His forehead connects with Edelgard’s, his knee with her abdomen, and his elbow with her back. She slumps to the floor in pain.

__

Dimitri wipes his nose of blood. “I told you, Edelgard, that I would quench that fire.” He retrieves Areadbhar. “None can outrun justice. Not even you.”

__

Edelgard coughs, choking on her saliva. She turns her head upward. Her wrenched right hand, hidden from view, reaches across her abdomen for the rapier strapped to her hip. “You dare speak to me of justice? What would--” She coughs again. “What would  _ you _ , His  _ Royal Majesty _ , know of justice? What could  _ you _ have lost to teach yourself what it means to fight for justice?! Certainly no more than I have.”

__

She lunges. The silver blade draws on a smooth track from its scabbard with its tip aimed at Dimitri’s chest. He sidesteps, leaving an opening for Edelgard to rise to her feet. She moves to strike again, desperate for some, any leverage she can exploit to fight back. Dimitri’s towering stature grants her none.

__

Areadbhar comes crashing down again to meet Edelgard’s shield. Her muscles flood with strength, and she beats him back with another open swing. Another lunge with her rapier, trying to use her smaller body for agility to keep him guessing. She couldn’t afford to let him back away. If he could make space between them, she would surely lose to his range.

__

To her surprise, Dimitri lets Areadbhar fall to the ground. Free of its burden, he reaches for her arms again. She wrenches herself free, retaliating with flashing stabs of silver.  _ He truly has gone mad _ , she says to herself.  _ Fighting me like this at close range? Letting me control the space? _

__

Dimitri makes up for his leverage with ferocity. He swipes with sharp talons. Edelgard falls to a defensive stance, parrying his lunges and directing them away. A stray strike swipes across her midsection from her left. She takes the bait, and he reaches to disarm her again. Wrenching the rapier from her grip proves effortless before his strength.

__

Edelgard’s eyes widen. Dimitri takes aim with his elbow. Time dilates around her. Adrenaline pumps through her muscles. Fear floods her mind. Lost control. Uncertainty. Left without any other options, she raises her arms in a cross over her head as Dimitri’s elbow comes crashing down.

__

He breaks her defenses effortlessly, pulling her guard down and leaving her head exposed. A single swipe is enough to toss her to the ground.

__

Dazed, she tries to pick herself up. But Dimitri is already waiting for her. He drives the heel of his boot into her back, pinning her down. “So it ends,” he says.

__

Edelgard spits up a trickle of blood. “I’m not… done yet,” she croaks. Her legs stir to life. She pools together the last of her energy to fight back. “As long as there is strength in my legs… I’ll find a way to move forward!”

__

“Must I break those too before you will yield? Or must your head be planted on a pike before you will be silent?” Leather squeals from Dimitri’s tightening fist. He growls. “Have you forgotten those who fell at Duscur?! I am here to deliver their souls unto eternal rest. I am here to bring justice for their sacrifices in the name of your self-centered war.” Dimitri reaches for the collar of Edelgard’s armor. He pulls her upward by the decorative slab of metal. Edelgard averts her eyes from his face, much to his disappointment. “Look at me,” he snarls, shaking her to demand her attention.

__

She keeps her distance. To look at him would admit defeat.

__

“Look at me, damn you!” he barks. Saliva foams at the corners of his mouth. His brow furrows. He holds her high over his head, high enough that she could kick at his chest if she had any strength left. “After all these years, you will at least give me the satisfaction of watching the light leave your eyes,  _ El _ .”

__

Edelgard’s eyes snap open. She gasps. “You… what did you call me?”

__

An arrow whistles.

__

Pinpoint pressure pricks through Dimitri's left shoulder before he can respond. Blood trickles from the wound, and a spasm from the pierced muscle fires a bolt of pain along his spine. A wounded cry rings through the streets, and Edelgard slips from his grip with a thud. She lies on the floor, motionless, lost in her own thoughts as her eyes quiver.

__

Dimitri snarls, reaching for the point of impact to dislodge the arrow. To his surprise, he finds two instead.

__

Dimitri pulls the arrows out of his arm, and he gasps through clenched teeth at the sudden burning pain. He pivots on his heel to spot his attacker. The follow-through hurtles through the air. Twin enchanted bolts zip by his chest. His pupils dilate, and he hunts through the murky chaos of battle to find his opponent. Amid the dark of the night, he struggles to spot any nearby shades. "Show yourself, sniveling Imperial dog!" he cries.

__

A glint of light flickers in his periphery, quickly joined by another, then another three, then another ten. In the span of a few seconds, Dimitri was surrounded by the small swirls of magic. They morph and contort themselves into the form of spikes, colored with a particularly dark shade of violet like the color of fresh ink. The spikes hover in place, perfectly still yet with their sharp tips clearly aimed at Dimitri. He hesitates. His pulse quickens. His grip on Areadbhar tightens, and the growl of a cornered animal slips through his clenched jaw.

__

The magic illuminates his surroundings. A horse approaches from the distance, carrying two riders on its back. The front rider holds her bow drawn at the ready, an arrow glimmering with the enchantment from its sacred blessing. The other holds her hands high in the air, each enveloped in an aura of the same color as the spikes surrounding Dimitri. “She can speak for herself,” says the red-headed archer, gesturing her head toward the mage seated behind her. “But me? Nah, I wouldn’t call myself Imperial.”

__

“Do be quiet, Leonie,” the rear rider says, rolling her eyes.

__

“What?” Leonie complains. “You’re too harsh, Lys; I thought it was clever.”

__

“Traitors to the Alliance!” Dimitri barks, each word spraying saliva. His figure lurches forward. “You dare to compound your crimes with her own? If you wish to follow her into the fires of eternity, then so be it!”

__

“Save your breath,” Lysithea quips. “You're in no position to judge. Now hand her over, or I can simply kill you now with a flick of my wrist. Decide quickly. I'm not the patient type.”

__

Dimitri growls and moves to pounce. Lysithea preempts him with a downward slash of her wrist. A single spike flies toward him and finds its mark, lodging in his right eye. Blood spurts from the wound, and Dimitri howls in pain. Areadbhar falls to the ground with a clang, and Lysithea moves to secure her victory. The remaining spikes elongate and aim for the ground surrounding Dimitri, imprisoning him in a ring of dark magic.

__

Leonie pulls her horse forward in a slow gallop. “Pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty,” she says, “but you need to get moving. We’ve got plenty more fighting to do.”

__

Edelgard sits still, her head hung low. Her legs splay outward beneath her. Aymr lies by her feet. She looks up at Leonie and Lysithea with glazed eyes.

__

“…Edelgard?” Lysithea questions. “Edelgard, say something!”

__

Leonie dismounts. “Allow me to exhibit a  _ woman’s touch _ .” She grabs Edelgard by the collar and brings the emperor to her feet before unceremoniously bringing an open palm down on her cheek. “Snap out of it! Right now! You’re in the middle of a battlefield and this is no time to go blank on us!”

__

Edelgard shakes her head to life. “Wh…” Dimitri’s howls of pain draw her attention. “What happened? Leonie, and Lysithea. You’ve subdued him?” She takes a deep breath. No time to worry about him right now. “I take it that the reinforcements have arrived, then?”

__

Leonie rolls her eyes. “Duh. Wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

__

“What about the retreat?”

__

“No clue,” Lysithea remarks, dismounting the steed. Aymr flickers on the ground nearby. She retrieves it and presents it to Edelgard. “But if that’s what’s going on, then we need to get you out of here. You don’t look like you’re in any shape to keep fighting.”

__

“C’mon,” Leonie beckons, “Buck and I’ll give you a ride. Lys can stick around and fend off the rest of these goons.”

__

Lysithea glares at Leonie. “Do you  _ want _ to end up like him? It wouldn’t take much effort, you know.”

__

Edelgard blinks a few times. “And just who is ‘Buck’?”

__

“My horse, dammit!” Leonie clamors. “Do you nobles not even give them  _ names _ ?”

__

* * *

__

Blood drips from the Sword of Moralta. Felix wipes the edge clean before sheathing it at his waist.

__

He turns to the west. Across the way of the chasm separating the broken wall, his companion continues her duel with the commanding Imperial mage. Felix pays them little mind; she could handle herself.

__

Felix reaches for the limp arm of his victim, squatting to slip his hands beneath her body. Her tattered coat falls from her shoulders as he hoists her. Her weight surprises him, but he proves strong enough to lift her and throw her over his shoulder. “If only we could have truly fought to the death,” he says to himself. “A missed opportunity. I thought you might be worthy of my full strength. I am sorry that it needed to be this way.”

__

He surveys the situation below. Faerghus cavalry continues its push into the city walls. A company of heavy cavalry stands guard near the rubble marking their entrance. Why were they standing still and not fighting? The fools.

__

Archers from the northeastern and southeastern walls of the city beat back infantry encroaching on their position. The northwestern wall continues to fend off the front of Faerghus forces threatening to batter their way into the city if left unchecked. Pegasus forces vie for aerial supremacy; the Galateans appear to be losing on that front, but by all other counts, this should be a catastrophic loss for the Empire.

__

“Felix!”

__

The cry jars his attention just in time. Ozone reeks in his nostrils. He turns, and a bolt of lightning slips by his face, over his right shoulder. He grits his teeth. One more foe to strike down, it seems. “Annette, I thought you had her under control!” he barks, drawing his blade.

__

“She’s a little outmatched,” Dorothea chides from across the chasm in the wall, her hands held forward and pulsing with a vibrant aura. The ice bridge melts away, keeping her safe.

__

The sorceress scrambles for a way to use her hands, her wrists tied together with a ring of conjured ice. She floats in the air, trapped within a bright pulse of light.

__

“Put the girl down,” Dorothea snaps. “Now.”

__

“Or else what?” Felix asks.

__

Air floods Dorothea’s lungs. She stifles a retch at the muddled scent of blood and sweat. A ring of flame manifests on the ground around her feet. “Or else you’ll pay for her life with yours.”

__

_ She thinks the girl’s dead? _ Felix questions. “And if she couldn’t beat me, what makes you think you can?”

__

“You’ve obviously never made a woman angry before.” The ring of flame wells, lashing out in hot tendrils and tracing scorch marks across the ramparts. Dorothea’s eyes burn with the same intensity, boring through Felix’s skull. “Let me show you how terrible of a mistake that is.”

__

Felix scowls.  _ So much for intimidation.  _ “Are you mad? You’d kill me and her both!”

__

His cries fall on deaf ears. Sparks ripple from Dorothea’s fingertips. The flames at her feet rise to meet those sparks, channelled along her currents of aether as she hurls the mixture of fire and lightning toward her new foe. Felix scrambles, dodging to the side of the rampart overhanging the town below. What to do now? With Annette captive and that woman on the loose, only one option seemed to remain: into the city.

__

The stench of ozone signals the next spell. Felix takes his chances and leaps over the battlement. To his fortune, a staircase breaks his fall just over the ledge. He begins his sprint downward, adjusting Byleth’s weight on his shoulder to make sure he did not lose her in his escape. Dorothea continues her assault from above. Lightning streaks both behind and ahead of Felix with each attack, always barely off aim with his pace on foot.

__

Soldiers bustle in the streets. Mounted cavalry direct their horses toward the opening in the wall. Infantry hustle to form ranks. Felix sidesteps and shuffles among them, barking orders and obscenities on his path out of the city. If he could get out into the open fields surrounding the town, he’d have a straight shot to the west. Rendezvous with the rest of the Faerghus army later. Give them time to finish the rout. Not like his quarry would be waking anytime soon.

__

Dorothea follows. Her next crash of lightning cuts through a swath of Faerghus men as she descends along a turbulent current of aether. A company of men move to surround her, but they fall victim to a pirouette and a whirlwind of fire. More men replace them in waves to meet their collective demise.

__

Felix breaks his way through the front ranks, desperately shoving them aside. The fields outside the city tease him in the distance. Just a little further, then he would be home free.

__

…No. His hopes fall away. “Where in the hell did they come from?!” Felix blurts.

__

Ranks of heavy cavalry begin their charge across the field toward the town. Standard-bearers raise banners adorned with their companies’ colors and the coats of arms of House Bergliez of Adrestia and House Ordelia of Leicester. War horns blare. Knights clamor with an intimidating cry.

__

_ So much for that plan _ , Felix mutters to himself. To the north would be suicide. Too many archers who might be able to see and shoot him. The only option would be south, toward the Riegan border. It shouldn’t be too hard to lay low there until the fighting ceased by morning. He could figure out a way to subdue Byleth if she woke before then. In the worst case, he could make the trek to Derdriu on his own. Hopefully the incoming cavalry would not break ranks to chase after him.

__

He accelerates into a sprint toward the southern corner of town parallel to the wall. Byleth’s weight on his shoulder burdens his pace, having borne it for so long. Adrenaline surges through his veins to dull the pain. His pulse pounds in his ears so violently that he’d think his heart lay between them. He glances over his collar through his periphery. None of the reinforcements following him. Perfect. He could make a clean getaway, then, and his task would be complete.

__

One final obstacle presents itself as he rounds the southern corner: a gray horse, adorned with a silver breastplate and scarlet drapes hanging from its saddle.

__

“Felix,” the rider says. His lance glimmers like gold, and the pointed tendrils along its shoulder wriggle to life. “I’m gonna need you to put her down.”

__

Felix grits his teeth. “Get out of my way, Sylvain. I won’t hesitate to cut you down.”

__

“Yeah? I’m not so sure. You don’t wanna fight me. And I don’t wanna fight you.”

__

“Is that so?” Felix snarls, reaching to draw his blade with his free hand. “Get off that beast then, and we’ll put that to the test!”

__

“Just because we’re on opposite sides doesn’t mean that  _ we _ have to fight each other! Just give me the girl, and you can go.”

__

“Like you can stop me.” Felix shrugs his shoulder, readjusting Byleth’s weight with a grunt.

__

Sylvain shakes his head. “I won’t need to. Seems you’ve attracted some fiery company.” He motions toward the battlements along the southeastern wall.

__

Felix turns his eyes in the same direction. Dorothea descends from the battlements along another current of aether. The hem of her wine-colored dress flares as she comes to rest on the ground with a light step behind Felix, sandwiching him between the two Adrestian commanders. “Finally found you,” she says, flicking her wrist to conjure a tiny flame on the tips of each of her fingers. “And looks like you’re in no position to run anymore. Good timing, Sylvain.”

__

“Just put her down, Felix,” Sylvain demands. “We’ll let you go once you do.”

__

Felix scowls. “And what, leave me to just come back again later?” He spits on the ground near the hooves of Sylvain’s steed. “You’re awfully soft, Sylvain. You always were. It sickens me.”

__

Dorothea giggles devilishly. “Just because he is doesn’t mean I am.”

__

“Dorothea, please,” Sylvain says. “We’ll take the captain and go. He doesn’t need to die here.”

__

“Doesn’t need to die?” Dorothea quips. “She’s dead, and he’s going to pay for it.”

__

Felix, sensing his only way out, explains, “Think for ten seconds, woman. Would I go through the trouble of dragging her out of the city if she were dead? Not a chance! I’d have slaughtered the rest of you.”

__

Dorothea does not lower her guard. She turns her attention to Sylvain, her eyes boring through Felix. “You think he’s telling the truth, Sylvain?”

__

“I do,” Sylvain replies. “I can explain later.”

__

Looking back at Felix, Dorothea jerks her head to one side. “Go on, then. Put her down.”

__

Felix resigns himself to his fate. No honor in death. Dishonor in failure could at least be redeemed. His father would, no doubt, have words for him when they next met. With a shrug of his shoulder, Byleth’s weight falls to the ground in a slump. He looks back at Sylvain, who gives him a nod. “Then in exchange for my life, I’ll retreat. Consider yourselves lucky that I feel so gracious.” Taking his window, Felix sheathes his blade and retreats back to the southwestern wall, into the now-empty fields which were once filled with reinforcements.

__

Once Felix vanishes out of sight, Dorothea races to Byleth’s side. She turns the captain over onto her back and quickly checks for a heartbeat. “…there’s nothing,” she says. “But she’s definitely breathing. How’d you know?”

__

“Like I said,” Sylvain replies, stowing his lance, “I can explain later. Can you lift her? We should get her to the retreating caravan.”

__

“I can try. I was never one for the brawny stuff.”

__

After a failed attempt or two, Sylvain leaves Dorothea alone with Byleth’s body to retrieve a second man. Dorothea tends to what wounds she can find along Byleth’s legs and midsection. A few pulses of healing magic alert her to the depth of these wounds. “Felix got you real good, huh, Byleth?” she remarks. Once each of the wounds had been covered and initially treated, Dorothea takes her opportunity to let the frustration and resentment ooze out of her. Deep breaths carry terrible burdens away. She had, perhaps, allowed herself to express her emotions too well. “Byleth,” she says, “your girl’s gonna need a hot bath once we’re all safe and sound.”

__

Sylvain returns with another mounted soldier. Together, they are able to lift Byleth’s body onto the back of Sylvain’s horse, leaning her against his back. Dorothea mounts just after, swinging both of her legs off of the side and praying that she would not fall before they met with the caravan.

__

Many of the main Imperial forces had already joined in the retreat on their arrival to the caravan. A decorated carriage had been prepared for the emperor.

__

Sylvain rides close to the Imperial carriage and glances over his shoulder. “You should take Cap to go see her. I’m sure she’ll want to know that she’s alright. I’ll get the rest of the men in gear.”

__

Dorothea nods. Sylvain dismounts first, and Byleth easily slips off the horse and into his arms. Dorothea hops off and dusts her dress clean. She takes Byleth, cradling her like a bride. No more words need be shared between them, and so Sylvain remounts his steed and rides forward to direct the rest of the retreat.

__

Dorothea approaches the entrance to the Imperial caravan. “Edie? You there?”

__

Inside, Edelgard sits on a bench and perks her head up from introspection. She looks at her hand for a moment, which had just been covering her mouth. A section of her gauntlet had been stripped away, leaving the scarred skin beneath it exposed. She tucks her hand away between her legs. “It’s good to hear your voice, Dorothea,” she says after collecting herself. “Please, come in.”

__

Dorothea takes a deep breath. She tries to wipe away the pained expression which mars her face to know avail. She enters the carriage.

__

The color drains from Edelgard’s face.

__

“She’s alive,” Dorothea says at once, realizing how Edelgard might immediately interpret Byleth’s motionless body. “Barely, but alive. I gave her a bit of treatment when we found her.”

__

Edelgard sinks into her seat on the bench. A thousand thoughts race through her head at once. How? Who? When? Byleth had been fighting hard atop the battlements, she remembered, but to think that she could lose? Edelgard thought Byleth nigh unstoppable, given the power of the goddess. Then, she recalled, some of that gift had been granted to her as well, and yet she had met a similar fate: battered, bruised, and beaten.

__

Dorothea approaches the bench with Byleth in tow. “Edie?”

__

Disrupted -- freed, even -- from her downward spiral, Edelgard looks up again.

__

“She’s stable enough,” Dorothea continues. “Would you like me to lay her down and leave her with you for a while?”

__

Edelgard frowns. She looks away for a moment, but lifts her head again shortly. A nod says enough.

__

Dorothea leans over and lies Byleth’s body across the bench. She ensures that Byleth’s head comes to rest in Edelgard’s lap. “Just keep her head elevated,” Dorothea remarks. A light chuckle colors her voice, as if to mask her nerves. “I don’t know how long she’ll be out, or even if she’s taken a smack to the head. But it doesn’t hurt to take extra precautions. I’m going to go see if the physicians need my help tending to the wounded. Take good care of her, okay? Not that I think you won’t.”

__

With that, Dorothea departs the carriage. Edelgard cranes her neck downward. Her amethyst eyes flit over every last detail of Byleth’s face, looking for any kind of wound to avoid. She finds none. Instead, she finds a raging torrent of emotions she had thought long suppressed. Elation that her closest companion had not perished in the siege. Disappointment that they had not succeeded. Terror over how her war effort had been so easily dismantled. Uncertainty over how Dimitri could have called her such a name.

__

Yet in spite of these feelings, one surfaces as the strongest: adoration for this lovely woman left in her lap, who had fought so strongly for a cause not her own. Even if they had not succeeded, Edelgard could feel a tinge of pride for her in that. She smiles. Such a strange emotion that she had not felt for perhaps fifteen years.

__

Edelgard unstraps the broken gauntlet covering her right hand and tosses it to the floor with a clang. The scars remind her of why she started her fight, but the woman below reminds her of why she continues to fight. Her bare fingers effortlessly lace through the wisps of Byleth’s mint-colored hair. A few knots and tangles stand in the way of her goal, but she breaks through them with a gentle tug. Her nails gently dig into Byleth’s scalp, and a smile forms on her lips. She croaks, “I’ll have to berate you later about taking better care of all this hair. I won’t accept you looking like this, you know.”

__

Byleth lies motionless. Edelgard can’t bring herself to mind.

__

One final emotion returns to Edelgard. Could she bear to lose someone like this? Someone who was so precious to her, someone who fought for her at every turn, who had chosen to walk down such a bitter path alongside her? Someone who she had lost once before, and feared that she might lose again today. She could not know for sure. The thought had been unbearable to her.

__

That fear finally manifests in its true form. Grief wells in her heart, and a tear trails down her cheek.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some candy for the Edeleth fans at the end to soften the blow of a crushing defeat.
> 
> Byleth's unconscious. Down, but not necessarily out. Just wounded. Question now is, with the main forces in tatters, what's Adrestia's next move? They'll probably retreat to a safer encampment, hole up and wait for Faerghus to try and challenge their position again while amassing reserve forces nearby. But the war just got a lot harder.
> 
> Edelgard's in a pretty bad mental state, what with her run-in with Dimitri (and almost getting killed in the process) and her love interest seriously wounded. Is she gonna be fit to fight again anytime soon? Who knows, but she's gonna have to be. Faerghus sure won't let up.
> 
> We've had our first major cross-sides encounters. Sylvain with Dimitri, and later with Felix. I'm sure he'll have some things to say about all that later once he's got the army out of immediate danger. He did promise to tell Dorothea something, after all.
> 
> Also, random Annette cameo. Wonder what happened to her? Last we saw of her, she was trapped in a jail of aether crafted by Dorothea.
> 
> With Adrestia's retreat, Dimitri and Claude seem like they're finally gonna have a face-to-face meeting. I bet that's gonna be pretty.
> 
> Let me know what y'all think with a comment~. ❤️


	14. Lone Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix struggles with the fallout after Daphnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one might be considered more of a side-chapter. As a result, it's quite short, comparatively. It was borne while writing the chapter after this one and realizing that there was just the right amount of material to give Felix his own chapter about his Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.
> 
> This one's angsty. Hope y'all enjoy. <3

_ 26th Day of the Guardian Moon  
Derdriu _

Felix lingers in front of a chamber door in Riegan manor. The door stands menacingly, glaring at him in expectation, as if to ask what he could possibly be waiting for.

The summons had come more swiftly than he anticipated, within minutes of settling into his guest room in Riegan manor, granting him little time to stew in his dread. Not even enough time to unpack his belongings, to assess his equipment after the siege, to enjoy a hot meal to calm his own nerves. No, instead, he would be forced to face that dread now. Air fills his lungs, escaping slowly through his nose.

His knuckles strike the door three times. His father answers from the other side. “Come in.”

Knowing that his unmaking lingers behind the door, Felix’s senses heighten. Each slow creak of the twisting doorknob rings in his ears like a dull drone. He grits his teeth together; the enamel shrieks under pressure.  _ Steady, Felix. Remember why you’re in this spot. Better to fail and try again another day. _

He slinks into Rodrigue’s chamber, composing himself and shutting the door behind him. Far from the first time he’d ever had to confront his father like this, and probably not the last. “You wanted to see me?”

Rodrigue glances up casually from a pile of papers strewn about the chamber’s desk. “Ah, there you are, boy. Yes. Please, have a seat.”

A wooden armchair sits alone in the center of the room, as if it had been arranged by the Riegan handmaidens ahead of time just for Felix. The walls are lined with decorative porcelain trays, each bearing a piece of a montage. Rodrigue’s bed had been elegantly made, no doubt by the duke himself. Felix knew his father; he would expect nothing less from him. Probably reminded him of his days as a common soldier or some other such nonsense.

Felix takes a seat in the central armchair, knowing better than to protest with his father at this point. Rodrigue rises from his work, folding a pair of reading glasses and stowing them in his cloak. His footsteps are heavy, echoing in Felix’s ears as if lightning had struck a few meters away. Rodrigue carries his head high, chin held up and back perfectly straight.  _ Imagine if the old man put as much effort into his skill as he did into his presentation. _

Rodrigue paces around the chair, completing a half round before finally speaking. “You were instructed with a most sacred task during our strike against the empire. Could you remind me of what task I had given you?”

Felix shuts his eyes, drawing in a heavy breath and holding his hands in his lap. “You asked me to bring you the Sword of the Creator.”

“That would have been quite the task on its own, but I am sure that I asked far more of you than that. Please, continue.”

“…and she who wields it, sir. Alive.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“To not kill her under any circumstances, even if the price should be my head. And to kill anyone who would stand in my way.”

“Precisely. Thank you for that reminder. And, might I ask, what became of that? I have received a full report of our prisoners and bounties taken from the siege. The Sword of the Creator was not among them.  _ She _ was not among them. Clearly, she has not been taken captive.”

Felix turns his eyes onto his father, struggling to maintain his stoic, emotionless demeanor. The old man knew exactly what buttons to press, much to Felix’s annoyance. “What do you even want me to say?”

“I would like for you to not play games with me, Felix.” Rodrigue lurches forward, bent over at the hip with nary a hunch in his spine, hands held clasped at the small of his back. “I would like for you to tell me the truth.”

Felix holds his gaze steady. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Then you’ll have to stomach the truth. I defeated her, I captured her, and I let her go.”

“You did  _ what?! _ ” Rodrigue’s voice booms through the chamber, rattling the decorative pieces of porcelain hung from the walls.

Flecks of spittle rain on Felix’s face. He slouches in his chair, and his heel drums against the carpet anxiously. “I let the girl go. Do I need to repeat myself again? Is your memory starting to fail you, old man?”

Rodrigue collects himself before scowling at his son. “I did not ask for your  _ attitude _ , Felix, I asked for your honesty. Now, tell me. Why did you let the girl go? You were on explicit orders to capture her at any cost, even should His Majesty himself fall to carry them out! How am I expected to deliver this news to Her Grace?”

“I did what I had to do to survive,” Felix replies, matter-of-factly. “If I didn’t turn her over, I would have almost certainly died. Would you not have done the same?”

“I would have risked my life to fulfill my duty to His Majesty and to Her Grace. I had thought that Glenn’s sacrifice would ha--”

A switch flips, and Felix rights his posture, leering at Rodrigue with bared teeth. “Don’t you dare invoke his name against me like that,” he snarls. “Your glorification of his sacrifice is exactly why I ran! There is no honor in death for any self-respecting warrior.”

Rodrigue pinches the bridge of his nose. He paces around the chamber, circling Felix’s chair. “A knight earns respect through proud servitude to his country, to his liege. I had thought that that would be apparent to you after all of our family’s hardships.”

“What respect? There’s nothing but this sick reverence we grant to those who die in battle out of their ‘devotion to duty.’ I want no part of that. I will be revered because I am strong, not because I was weak!”

“You must learn, Felix, that the king’s men look out for one another on the battlefield! Even if it means giving up their own life to protect another whom they care for, or to carry out their orders granted from higher command. That Annette is not with us is further testament to your own failure to learn that lesson.”

Felix darts up from his chair, and it falls behind him with a thud. He stands firm against his father, their eyes locked. Electricity erupts from the tension between them. A vein threatens to pop in Felix’s temple. “You think I  _ wanted _ to leave her behind?! You keep acting like I had any choice to make given my circumstances, but you weren’t up there on the battlements with your sword drawn. That was me.  _ I _ was trusted with that mission, because  _ you _ knew that I was strong enough. Don’t act like you can understand the decisions that I made for my own sake, the sacrifices that I made to save my own skin.”

“And what would you know of sacrifice?!” Rodrigue towers over Felix. His voice bellows once more through the chamber, echoing down the hallways of the Riegan manor. “What have you lost thus far, what prices have you paid, what lessons have you learned? None, Felix. Not a damned one.”

Felix scowls, growling at his father. He shoves Rodrigue away and turns for the doorway to the chamber. It swings open with a crash against the wall, and Felix takes his leave. His footsteps echo through the otherwise quiet hallways of the Riegan manor.

A burden falls from Rodrigue’s shoulders. He glances at the fallen chair lying on the carpet and groans, picking it up from the floor and turning it upright. He claims the chair for himself; its strangely warm embrace comforts him. and massages at his forehead with his fingers. They bring no reprieve to his frustration. “When will I ever get through to that boy?”

* * *

Felix’s eyes run down the blade of one of his swords. The edge had grown slightly dull during the siege. He reaches across to his trunk, rummaging through the contents for his usual pouch. From inside the pouch, he produces a whetstone. A few glides down the blade’s edge draw his focus away from his frustrations. The earlier confrontation with his father still lingers in his mind. Mentions of what he should do as a knight, as if he had ever wanted such a title. Chivalry had gotten his brother killed. He would not make the same mistake.

He holds the blade up to inspect its edge again. Its surface mirrors his face. In the reflection, he spots a figure standing in his doorway. She leans against the frame, arms folded over her chest. “How long have you been standing there?” he asks, sheathing the blade.

“Just got here,” Ingrid replies.

Felix glares at her over his shoulder and returns to inspecting his equipment, starting an inspection on his sidearm. “What do you want, woman?” he spouts at the wall.

Ingrid does not flinch; she had grown accustomed to his abrasive nature over the years. “You seem tense,” she says. “I heard about what happened earlier today. I thought that I’d check in on you, as a friend. But if you’d rather that I leave, then I can just as easily do that.”

Felix scoffs, otherwise ignoring her.

“Suit yourself,” Ingrid continues, turning to leave but lingering in the doorway. “I’m sure you know where to find me around this hour.”

Felix finishes tightening a lace around his scabbard, fastening a fresh belt to it. He sets the scabbard down, sheathing a blade into its embrace to finish his work. Finally, he stands from his seat. “Why do you care so much?” he asks, his face writhing with frustration out of view.

Ingrid pauses and turns her head over her shoulder. “…I’m sorry?” she queries.

“You heard me,” Felix snaps, spinning around. His footsteps thunder as he closes in on her. His narrow eyes focus on the soft bandages tied around Ingrid’s arm. “Why do you care so much? About me, when you’re still barely fit to fight.”

“Barely fit? I’m more than well enough to fight. I paid the price for my carelessness, and I’m fortunate to not have paid a heavier one. Just like you.”

The crease in Felix’s brow tightens. “Don’t dodge the question. Answer it. Why. Do. You. Care. So. Much?”

“Care so much about what? About you?”

“Stop playing dumb! I already said ‘about me’. You know exactly what I’m asking.”

“If you must know,” Ingrid continues with a frown, “I care about your well-being because I consider you to be a friend. But you seem to not care for my company at present, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave. I’ve better things to do than stand here and let you berate me over nothing that I’ve done. Maybe I’ll grab a bite to eat. I’ve heard that the Riegan manor chefs are top notch.”

“Always about food with you!” Felix barks to her back. “Can’t even stop to have a conversation with me before your mind sidetracks to stuffing your face.”

Ingrid pauses in the armory doorway. “I already told you that I’m not about to tolerate your rudeness, Felix. I offered my help. You clearly don’t want it. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“That’s exactly it! That help? That’s a foolish gesture. When will you learn to care about yourself? It’s always about what you can do for someone else, and never about what you can do for your own hide.”

“Excuse me? Who stuck a sword up your arse?”

“And who exactly inspired you to be foolish enough to try and fight with a wounded arm? I remember how strongly you spoke about leading the Galateans after you had been wounded. That chivalric nonsense will get you nowhere. Did you think you could play the hero? That there might be honor in death by duty? You learned nothing from Glenn.”

“How dare you!” Ingrid extends an index finger at Felix. “Glenn was ten times the knight you’ll ever be!”

“And half the warrior! I’m still here, and he isn’t, all because he had the brilliant idea of sacrificing himself for someone else’s life. All because of this slavery to the ideal that you call chivalry.”

“No, you’re still here because of your cowardice. You had a chance to prove yourself worthy of that title, and you sacrificed it to live another day. Don’t think I haven’t heard about how you turned tail and ran when you were cornered.”

“Cowardice? You think me a coward for saving my own skin? You would have thrown yourself into battle at Daphnel had Mercedes not convinced you otherwise. And wounded like that? You would have died, Ingrid. That’s not bravery. That’s not honorable. It’s foolish.”

“And I didn’t. Because I can learn from those around me. You, on the other hand? You see everyone else as lesser to you. Not a damn thing to learn from any of them, because you have everything already figured out. If that’s what you want to see me as, then that’s fine. I must have been a fool to ever consider you a friend.”

Ingrid turns to leave again. Felix bites his lower lip, as if the gnawing pain might help him ignore the venom in her words. He glances at the set of swords leaned against the wall for another distraction, each nestled in a decorative scabbard. Each had been a gift from a childhood friend, none of whom remained. One had died, never to return. One had lost himself to madness and become a wild animal. The last had turned traitor.

Only she remained from his childhood. It dawns on Felix that letting her go would be akin to letting go of the last shred of his childhood innocence. Was he ready for that?

No. No, he wasn’t.

“Ingrid!” he cries.

Ingrid stops. She does not turn to look at Felix. “What do you want?” she bites, disgusted.

“I’m…” Felix struggles to find words to express himself. Holding his head in one of his palms, he groans. Best to be straight with her. “Listen, I’m sorry. I was angry, and I lashed out. It’s not right of me to take out my frustrations with my father on you.”

Ingrid’s shoulders slack, and she sighs. “Goddess above, I’ve the patience of a saint.” She turns around; a pained expression colors her face. “I know. Lord Rodrigue told me to go looking for you in the first place. He mentioned that you were upset, but I didn’t realize just how much. Did you want to talk about it?”

“It’s… nothing.” Was it? Felix can hear his father’s words replaying in his ears, and he scoffs at them. “Just the same drivelling spiel he always gives. Something about how I’m not doing enough to fulfill my duties, like I even wanted them to begin with. He invoked Glenn’s name, and then Annette’s, and then talked about how I had failed, and… I don’t know. Something snapped.”

“Is that all? That doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’.”

Felix nods. “Maybe it’s not nothing. But that’s my fight, not yours.”

“I see. Well… I suppose I should apologize, too. I suspected that something had happened when Rodrigue asked me to check on you. Knowing that? I shouldn’t have lashed out. I let my temper get the best of me. If it’s really nothing that you want me to worry about, then I won’t push you any harder on it. Just… try to take some time to cool off, would you?”

“Yeah. I will.”

Ingrid turns to walk away, but Felix reaches for her wrist. She slips through his fingers, but senses the faint touch of his fingertips. She turns her head over her shoulder. “Yes, Felix?”

One more thought occurs to him. One more question for which he needed an answer. “Would you have fought him?”

“Fought who?”

Felix swallows hard. He hangs his head, solemn. “I saw him, Ingrid. I saw Sylvain.”

Ingrid freezes. The color in her face vanishes.

“He was the one who stopped me while I was running. He could have taken me hostage, even killed me if he wanted to, but… he let me go free. Would you have fought him, Ingrid? I drew my blade, ready to cut him down, but I’m not so sure that I could have--”

“I’m sorry, Felix.” Ingrid cuts his rambling short with a flat, emotionless response. She turns her attention away again. “I need to go.”

Felix does not reach for her. Instead, he winces, his eyes fasten shut, and his lower lip quivers. This was not like him, he thinks to himself. How could he let himself grow so sentimental over a single encounter? The fool had left them all to cut his own path. Let him go. He’s not worth the trouble.

Ingrid vanishes around the corner, into the hallways of the manor, leaving Felix alone with his thoughts once more.

* * *

A thunderstorm rages through Derdriu in the night.

Felix lies exposed on his guest bed, sheets tossed to one side of the mattress in a loose heap. A cold sweat covers his body with a thin, translucent sheen. Lightning illuminates his frame, highlighting the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he gasps for air. The gnashing of teeth fills the room between crashes of thunder as he fights back against his anxious mind. He murmurs softly in protest.

In his mind’s eye, he revisits the siege of Daphnel. His former teacher falls to his superior bladecraft. He reaches to hoist her on his shoulder again, only for the crack of thunder to ring in his ears from the outside world. Byleth falls from his shoulder.

Lightning strikes again at his feet, forcing him into a dance across the ramparts as he draws his blade. In the distance, a voice calls to him, muffled and muted, as if her head were covered by a sack. “Felix! Help me!”

Her face, however, appears as plain as day to him. Horror contorts her features. Tears tug at the corners of her eyes. Wrapped in a cocoon of light-aspected aether, she beats her fists against the interior of her gaol. Thud. Thud. Thud. The thumps echo across the battlefield, even as another crack of lightning strikes at Felix’s feet.

“Annette!” he cries. “I’m coming after you!”

Felix leaps into the air, narrowly dodging a whirling blaze spouting from about his feet. Fiery tendrils lash out for their target. One slithers about his leg, tightening around his ankle and pulling him back to the cobblestone floor. The others restrain his remaining limbs, wrenching his blade free from his grip. Held down, he can only watch the sight above in horror.

Annette hurls her magic against the inside of her prison, only for it to dissipate on contact with the bright aether. A faint light manifests across her lips and clamps them shut. They meld into the surrounding flesh, stitching her mouth together like a wound needing to be healed. As the skin smoothes over, her voice vanishes as if she had never had a mouth at all, leaving her only to helplessly beat her fists against the cocoon.

The clouds behind Annette twist and contort into the image of a woman’s head. Her long, luxurious hair, coiled in well-kept curls, betrays her identity. Her mouth opens, and a high, operatic note rings from the clouds. “She’s a little outmatched,” the woman taunts, her words commanding the tendrils to further restrain him and leave him pinned against the ramparts. Lightning crackles in the clouds shaped into her eyes, and a gust of wind pours from her nose. “You’ve obviously never made a woman angry before! Let me show you how terrible of a mistake that is!”

Thunder roars in Felix’s ears.

Lightning strikes outside Riegan manor.

Felix jolts awake, clutching at his sternum. His eyes dart through the room in a frenzy as adrenaline courses through his veins. He brushes the mop of hair hanging in his face away as his pupils adjust to the dark. Slowly, recognition takes over. He was still in Riegan manor, not in Daphnel. He draws a long breath into his lungs, releasing it slowly through a pinhole between his lips.

Just a dream. A vivid one, but still only a dream. When was the last time that he had had a true nightmare like that? Perhaps after Glenn had died. Maybe even sooner than that, after watching the boar slaughter an entire army in his rage.

Felix releases his grip on his chest and reaches for his face. Cold and clammy, much to his chagrin. He retches at the slimy texture of his skin and wills himself out of bed.

Lightning strikes again, providing just enough illumination to the room for Felix to find his way to a suite of candles fashioned from beeswax situated in the corner. A strike of iron against flint lights a spark, and the candles spring to life. Felix wanders through the room over to a washing basin, pouring himself a helping of water into the basin. Cupping a handful of water, he splashes his face clean, scrubbing away the sticky film of sweat.

He looks at himself in the mirror just above the basin. Bags encircle his eyes, though they do not surprise him given the exhaustion plaguing his body. He frowns at the display. Even while asleep, the anxiety had kept him from truly resting. That failure could tax him like this… would he find reprieve before he could redeem himself? Or would he have to live with this as his new normal?

Surely the old man had something to do with this. His rambling about honor and chivalry had done nothing to ease Felix’s mind, and only served to stoke the fires of Felix’s disdain toward him. If not him, then Ingrid. She had apologized, but she ran from him when he had asked about that traitor. He knew, of course, what the two of them had had together at the monastery. He knew her sorrow when she came to him after the traitor had delivered his abdication of his post. He knew his own sorrow when that news came, that he might never see his friend again except on the battlefield.

That was the last time that he had ever come close to tears. He had stifled them then. He could stifle them now.

Felix throws his fist into the wash basin in frustration, splashing water onto the mirror. He wanders through the room, running fingers through his hair as he wrestles with his own thoughts. Sylvain was merely a piece of the puzzle. He had not dreamt about Sylvain. He had dreamt about Annette, and about how he had failed her.

If only he had paid more attention to her duel, he might have seen that she was losing. If only he had not stopped to take inventory of the battlefield, he might have been able to make it across the chasm before Dorothea had melted the bridge connecting them. If only he had… No, too many ifs. He knew better.

Felix’s reflection greets him, translucent in the surface of the window looking out over the grounds of the Riegan estate. He leans his forehead against the glass and chews on his lower lip. His foot compulsively drums against the carpet in slow, rhythmic beats.

He could not fail her again. He could not fail himself again.

“I’m sorry, Annette,” he whispers to himself. His voice cracks under duress, his throat choking on tears that he dare not show even his own reflection. “I’ll come for you. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor kid. He deserves to be happy, by the end of all this.
> 
> Also, subtle hints toward Annette/Felix, and tags updated accordingly. eyes_emoji


	15. Tales of Two Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faerghus takes up quarters in Derdriu.

_ 27th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186  
Derdriu _

Dimitri lies motionless on his provisioned bed in the infirmary, stripped of most of his clothing. Blonde stubble nips at his jawline with an infernal itch, but he did not care enough to scratch it. A bandage wrapped about his head covers his right eye socket, barely obscuring the injury save for a few visible flecks of blood around the edges. Sleep had continued to elude him for the past few days, despite Faerghus’s hollow victory in Daphnel. They had beaten back the empire, yet Edelgard’s head still was connected to her neck, once again out of his reach. The dead still hounded him in the night, urging him toward revenge, to wrench her head from her shoulders. In that delirium, the nights blurred together. How long had it been since the siege, two nights? Three?

A knock comes to the door. “Your Majesty?” A woman’s voice calls to him. “It’s time for your morning check-up!”

Dimitri answers with a groan. The nurse allows herself in anyway, carrying a light supply case. Setting it down by the nightstand near Dimitri’s cot, she beams at her patient. “Can you sit up for me? I need to replace your bandages.”

Dimitri glares at her through his one remaining eye. His brow furrows, and he snorts. Still, he complies. His joints creak from lack of use over the past few days.

The nurse tends to her work, untying the square knot at the back of Dimitri’s head. She pulls the bandage away, only to be greeted by a swollen mass of dried blood. “Heavens above, did the last nurse not clean this when she changed your bandage?”

Dimitri does not answer.

The nurse reaches for a sterile cloth from her supply case and wets it in the infirmary washbin. A quick wring expels the excess moisture. She applies an alcoholic solution to the tip of the cloth before returning to the side of Dimitri’s bed. “This might sting a little,” she warns before moving to wipe away the dried blood. Dimitri winces and sucks in air through his teeth, but he remains still. After wiping away the last flecks of blood around the wound, the nurse applies another few drops of the same alcohol to a bandage. Dimitri does not wince this time as it envelops his wound, masking it from sight once more. She ties it into the same square knot as the last was tied. “There. Good as new.”

Dimitri snorts at the false cheer. He could vividly recall the pain of the wound when it was fresh; she could know nothing like that.

The nurse bids him farewell after packing her belongings, leaving Dimitri to stew in his own disappointment again. He falls onto his back, into the firm comfort of his cot. He folds his arms across his chest.

Waiting had always bothered him. Waiting for the daylight to come to break another sleepless night. Waiting for his chance at justice. Waiting for the dark souls which still haunted his thoughts to dissipate into nothing once he had bought them their vengeance. So many years had he waited, and she had slipped through his fingers thanks to those Alliance traitors. How could Rodrigue even be certain that they would not betray them here?

Another knock comes at his door. “You in there, Your Kingliness?” A familiar voice. One he could almost place, but not fully recall. Dimitri does not answer. The next knock more closely resembles a pounding. “Alright, if I need to bust down this door, then I will! It’s  _ my _ house, you know!”

True to his word, the man calling from the other side barges into the room with an unceremonious entrance. Despite their years of distance, Dimitri instantly recognized him.

Claude approaches the edge of Dimitri’s cot. “You certainly look like you’ve seen better days, old friend. Five years, yeah? Seems like it might have been ten or twenty, for you.”

Dimitri turns his eye back to the ceiling.

Claude frowns. “Guess that joke was a little too harsh, huh? Would you rather I compliment you on your  _ eyes _ ?”

Dimitri growls.

With a sigh, Claude turns his back. “Suit yourself. I just wanted to have a little chat with my old classmate.”

“Why are you  _ really _ here, Claude?” Dimitri asks.

Claude freezes in the doorway. He glances back at the wounded king. Dimitri sits hunched on the edge of his cot. Claude scans the room for a spare seat and finds a chair with a short back. He retrieves it, spins it around, and sits in it with his arms folded over the top of its back. “Like I said,” he starts, “I just wanted to have a little chat. See how you’ve been holding up.”

Dimitri lifts his head. A bag of weary skin circles his left eye. “How do you think?” he replies. “Look upon my face and ask me again how I am ‘holding up.’”

“Well, I can certainly tell that you’ve seen better days.”

Unkempt, jagged nails dig into the heel of Dimitri’s palm. His frustration mounts. “Better days like what? Like at the monastery, shielded from the outside world and left to frolic amongst ourselves, playing pretend that the world we would inherit could harbor anything better than a cold, cynical cruelty?”

Claude chews on the inside of his lower lip.

“Nine years, Claude.” Saliva foams at the corners of Dimitri’s mouth. “Nine years since I have seen a better day. Nine years since I chose my path on the hunt for revenge, for justice, for  _ her head. _ And what have I to show for it as I sit here in this damned infirmary? Nothing. Nothing but one less eye and an insatiable craving for her blood.”

Claude scowls and rests his chin on his arms. “And just what would that accomplish for you, Dimitri? You think your father would want you to go after her like this?”

“Of course he would,” Dimitri cackles. “His voice comes to me as clearly as your own.”

“Right. I see. And just why would he want you to go after her?”

A short trickle of blood falls into a puddle between Dimitri’s feet. “She must pay for the crimes she has committed against the people of Fodlan. Against the people of Brigid, of Dagda, of Duscur. All the innocents she has slaughtered.”

“Now hold on a second.” Claude’s forehead wrinkles. “I’m no fan of this war of hers. But she can’t have had anything to do with anything that happened in those places.”

“Nonsense,” Dimitri sputters. “She and her ilk were responsible for what happened in Duscur. So many dead… So many lost souls crying out for vengeance. Do you hear their voices, Claude? They whisper among us in this very room!”

“Whatever you say.” Claude rises from his chair and turns away from Dimitri.

“Would you not have called for Faerghus’s aid if you did not already see it?” Dimitri pleads.

Claude stops in his tracks. He does turn back to face Dimitri. “I called for Faerghus’s aid for the good of my own people. Not out of some distraught, vengeful sense of justice. We would have fallen without you. What choice did I have?”

“Is that why you did not join us in battle, then? Cowardice? You could have secured our rear, cut off their escape route, done  _ anything  _ at all and we would have Edelgard’s head on a pike to deliver to Enbarr.”

“I took the best option for my men. Throw away countless lives to meet your men for a unified assault when we still had no idea where the Empire might lie in wait? There’s no victory in that. No victory in senseless death. You might think me a coward, but I’m no fool.” Claude turns his head over his shoulder. “If you have a problem with my decision, take it up with Ingrid and Rodrigue. It was their suggestion. I just did what made sense for us.”

“And we could have ended this war in a single broad stroke had you done what was best for the  _ world! _ She yet lives because of your failure to see it through. What’s one life for the thousands of dead souls she has dug beneath her heel?”

“One life saved today could bring victory tomorrow. You can’t know for certain that we would have captured her. And then what? My men would have died for nothing.” Claude opens the door to make his exit. “But it’s clear to me that you have no interest in listening to what I have to say. Think whatever you want to think. I’ve got better things to do than listen to the mad ravings of a fallen king.”

The door slams behind him with a burst of strength borne from his frustration. Dimitri sits in the stillness of solitude for a moment before lifting his hand to his face. Tiny red nicks linger on his palm. He takes a deep breath and coils his fingers back into a fist.

_ “He speaks nonsense, his words are meaningless!” _

_ “She shall pay the ultimate price for her crimes!” _

_ “Failure is not an option!” _

Dimitri shuns the voices away. He had heard enough of their pleas for today, and it had not even passed noon. He falls onto his cot, arms and legs splayed out across the tiny mattress, and stares at the ceiling. Minutes pass like seconds, and hours like minutes as he mindlessly wanders across the patterns in the fresco painted overhead.

She had slipped from his grasp once now. She would not again. His lips form his message to the spirits which haunt him. “I will wager my life on it.”

* * *

Boar bristles rummage through Ferdinand’s hair, untangling knots along their trail. Stray droplets of water fall from the ends. Ferdinand gives the still-damp ends a brief shake to free them of any remaining moisture. Satisfied with the sheen of his locks, he runs his fingers through the strands one final time. He finds them bereft of any flaws and returns to the rest of his routine.

The past few years in direct military service had done much to adjust the fit and style of his garb. His shoulders had broadened. His chest had filled out. Gone were the days of a tightly cut noble’s tunic frilled with lace hems and silken handkerchiefs. His provisioned uniform from House Goneril still clung tightly to his skin, as he would expect it, but he would never have expected to wear something so… triangular five years ago. He assesses his state of dress: solid black, save for a few hints of yellow and red—the latter being his favorite color, personalized by his request.

He checks the time on a bedside clock: twenty minutes until nine. With plenty of time to spare, he departs his guest room for his appointment in the meeting chambers.

Ferdinand steps out of his room into an empty hallway—not uncommon at this hour—and locks the door behind him. Left alone with his thoughts, he mulls over the agenda for the coming war meeting. The news of Faerghus’s approach had come yesterday, early in the morning, and they requested an immediate convocation of the Alliance lords and generals. What could they want? Surely not just supplies. Perhaps additional forces to push a joint army through to Enbarr. Holst must think the same, else Ferdinand himself would not have been requested.

He rounds a corner, and his nose collides with a hard, solid surface. Ferdinand stumbles back, dazed as he tries to collect himself.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

Ferdinand shakes his head. A figure—certainly the one who had yelled at him—sits on the ground. Felix rubs at his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Oh!” Ferdinand exclaims. “My apologies. I allowed my attention to lapse for but a moment. Here, let me help you.”

Felix reaches for the extended hand before the realization hits him. His eyes widen, his expression exacerbated by the bags beneath his eyes. “…what are  _ you _ doing here?”

Ferdinand pulls Felix up to his feet. He rubs his nose to soothe the pain. “Me? Doing here? Why would I not be? I have a duty to attend the unified war council meeting with our esteemed guests from Faerghus.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Felix folds his arms over his chest and leans against the wall. “I recognize you. You’re the Aegir noble. Ferdinand, was it?”

Ferdinand cocks an eyebrow. “Yes, I am. Er, rather, I  _ was _ . Now that you mention it, you seem familiar as well. Do I know you from somewhere?”

“We went to school together.”

The gears turn in Ferdinand’s head, and he proclaims, “Of course! You are, in fact, the spitting image of Duke Fraldarius! How could I not see it before? A pleasure to make your acquaintance once again. I trust that you will be a valuable ally on the battlefield as we march to war against Adrestia.”

Felix frowns. “So. You’ve been here in the Alliance all this time? I’m surprised. How strange that you’ve managed to lie undetected beneath the emperor’s nose all these years.”

“Ah, yes. That is a tale perhaps better regaled over a fine meal. Have you partaken of the Riegan chefs’ cuisine? I would be happy to escort you, if you do not know the way.” Ferdinand offers a bent elbow.

Felix refuses it, shooting the offer down with a glare. “Strange indeed. Convenient, even.”

Puzzled, Ferdinand replies, “I am… sorry? Is something bothering you?” Few among Holst’s men had been able to ascertain his identity over the years. In his younger years, such lack of recognition may have drawn Ferdinand’s ire. In truth, he had found it a rather comforting reset on his life.

“It’s obvious,” Felix announces. He pushes himself off the wall and extends an index finger at Ferdinand. “You’ve been working for the empire this whole time, haven’t you?”

“You must be sorely mistaken,” he says, his brow arching. “I have severed my ties to the empire.”

Felix pushes forward. “And yet you’ve lingered here, in plain sight? I don’t buy it.”

Disturbed by Felix’s assertive gesture, a bead of sweat trickles down Ferdinand’s temple. “Please, Felix, these hallways are no place for such questions of loyalty! I can assure you that Lord Holst has the utmost--”

“As if a year or two of service to a noble house could prove your loyalty,” Felix interrupts. He closes in, the whites of his eyes plainly visible. The tip of his index finger digs into Ferdinand’s sternum. He queries, “Are you prepared to fight against your old countrymen? To strike down an old friend? Your  _ loyalty _ has yet to meet its true test. We will see the true colors of your character once we face the empire. Until then, consider yourself under my watch. If you so much as hesitate, I will not grant you mercy.”

Confident in his last word, Felix wanders off. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and resumes his patrol down the hallways of the manor.

Ferdinand sighs. In some sense Felix was right. The true test had yet to come, if it ever would. The deepest part of his heart yearned for Edelgard to yield, that life in Fodlan might return to normal. But he knew Edelgard, well enough to know that she could never yield.

He shakes his head. He still had that appointment.

* * *

Claude rises from his seat at the roundtable in the grand ballroom of Riegan manor. “Welcome one, welcome all,” he begins. “Faces of old, faces of tomorrow. Please, your seats.”

Holst and Judith take seats to Claude’s direct right and left, respectively. Ferdinand, Lorenz, Margrave Edmund, Rodrigue, and Dimitri complete the circle, dispersing themselves about the roundtable. Lorenz and Ferdinand each glance sideways in horror at the bandages on Dimitri’s eye.

As the last man seats himself, Claude continues his opening statements. “I would like to call this council to order, if there are no objections.”

None object.

“Speak now, or forever hold your peace? …Alright! Easy enough.” Claude rummages through a collection of notes he had taken to set an agenda for the council. He clears his throat and begins to read. “As you are all aware, this council has been convened in an attempt to bridge the gap between ourselves, our forces, and our efforts in the war against the empire. General Daphnel has already met the empire in combat at Myrddin, and Duke Fraldarius in Daphnel. Our Alliance brethren have already heard General Daphnel’s report from Myrddin. With that in mind, Duke Fraldarius, would you like to start with granting us your report from the siege in Daphnel?”

“I would be honored, Duke Riegan,” Rodrigue says as he rises from his chair. A deep breath fills his lungs. “We were successful in our attempt to breach the walls of the city where they had taken up camp. Regrettably, reinforcements flanked us on our southwestern front and bought enough time for the Imperial army to mount a full retreat. By our reports from our own men, none of the major Imperial commanders are known to be among the Adrestian casualties.”

Holst strokes his chin in thought. “So, the emperor and her lackeys are still at large. Have we gathered any intelligence suggesting where they might be holed up? If they’re heading through Goneril, I would like for my men to strike while the iron is hot.”

“Sadly, we do not have anything affirmative,” Rodrigue answers. “One of our forward scouts spotted what he described as a small rearguard camp bearing Adrestian banners near the Gloucester border. He did not investigate further.”

Lorenz clenches his thighs underneath the table, praying that none might notice the tense, twisted look on his face.

Holst scowls. “Dancing around my men in Goneril, the dogs. Gloucester, have you heard anything of skirmishes with the Imperials from your men?”

Lorenz swallows the lump in his throat. “None, milord, though any such reports from our stations could still be a day away.”

“I wouldn’t fret over it too much,” Judith continues, much to Lorenz’s gratitude. “They’re most likely heading back toward Myrddin to reinforce with reserves from the inner reaches of the Empire. It’ll be the safest spot for them to hole up in case of a follow-up attack.”

“So we have our target, then,” Dimitri states. His voice booms over the roundtable. “Why bother with continuing? Let us gather the men and advance.”

“In the shape your folks are in?” Judith scoffs. “The empire could have a reserve unit backing up their station within a few days, and your men are exhausted from that siege. Grant them some time to rest.”

“Time to rest is time for Edelgard to recover, time for them to rally. We must move quickly!”

Rodrigue places a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “Your Majesty. Please. Sit.” Dimitri complies, quelled for the time being. Rodrigue continues, “I agree with General Daphnel. We will require time and supplies to ensure that our men are in good shape. To set out now would be suicide. With that being said, I fear that we may lack the numbers to stand against the empire again. I would expect reserve units to meet with Edelgard’s army in Myrddin to continue their push back into Alliance territory. If we are to best them, then we cannot do it alone. We were fortunate to find an opportunity to strike against their smaller elite forces. I fear that we will not be so fortunate again. I would beseech the Alliance leadership among us: will you lend us your strength?”

Judith chimes in first. “I would feel remiss to not offer the forces of Daphnel as thanks for your aid. Count me in.”

Holst beats his fist on his chest. “House Goneril will stand with you, as well. And I shall carry her finest at my back.”

Rodrigue turns to the last of the lords yet to speak. “Margrave Edmund?”

Margrave Edmund frowns. “Frankly, I have my doubts,” he says. “Must we push forward at all at present? Could we not simply reclaim our bridge and be done with it? Station ourselves with more troops near the border. Broker for peace while the empire is on the back foot.”

“With all due respect, Margrave,” Claude remarks, “I don’t think that sitting on our hands will accomplish much of anything. Edelgard is not one to sit at a table for peace agreements, as much as I would like her to.”

“I concur,” Rodrigue says with a nod. “Faerghus has borne witness to the suffering wrought from inaction in the face of her war effort. She will not stop until a victor has been crowned.”

Lorenz clears his throat. The council turns their eyes on him. “Pardon my interruption, but I am not so sure. In my meeting with her, she presented herself not as the cold, calculating sort of woman which I once knew. Rather, she pleaded from a grieving heart.”

“Nonsense,” Dimitri snaps, leaning back into his chair. “That woman has no capacity to grieve.”

“I have seen to the contrary. Her compassion is much deeper than you realize.”

“Only so far as she can abuse it to meet her own ends.”

“Your Majesty, please,” Margrave Edmund pleads. “Allow the man to speak.”

Dimitri snarls at the margrave. “Speak to what? Speak lies? What could he possibly know that I do not? I have known her longer than anyone else in this room. I have seen her true face, and I will not entertain such sympathies toward that monster!”

“We are here to discuss our options in a peaceful manner. Not talk over one another and suggest that others do not know better.”

“And just how do you expect peaceful discussion to aid us in battle? We are at war. There is no time for peaceful discussion and deliberation. There is only time for action. Can this council find it in itself to be bold, or will you sit here and merely talk about actions?”

Silence befalls the members of the roundtable. In that silence, Dimitri finds his answer. He shoves his chair to the side, and it falls to the floor with a crash. His cloak billows behind him as he departs the ballroom.

Rodrigue slacks his shoulders. Breaking the silence, he says, “My apologies for His Majesty’s outburst. Please, if you would speak, Lord Lorenz, continue.”

Lorenz collects his thoughts, pressing his palm to his forehead. “Right, where was I? Ah, yes, Edelgard. I would remind you that Arianrhod was not fully her doing, merely under her watch. She expressed deep remorse at its occurence…” He glances to his left, toward Ferdinand. “…and also at those she had lost to her own inaction over it.”

Ferdinand’s brow creases. “Remorseful as she might be, I have chosen my path. I do not know what she might hope to gain by expressing sympathy over me.”

“My apologies,” Lorenz replies. “I let myself ramble. As for my father and our troops, we intend to stay in place. Gloucester will keep her men stationed in reserve, should this unified army that you are building have need of them. I suspect Margrave Edmund will do the same.”

Margrave Edmund nods. “I fully intend to keep my men stationed in Derdriu, should Duke Riegan plan to lead the charge against the empire.”

Claude looks to each of his sides, as if seeking approval. “With my two best generals at the helm? I would feel uneasy not marching forward, if you would have me.”

“We’d be pleased to have your talents at our disposal,” Judith answers with a smile.

Margrave Edmund continues, “Very well, then. I shall move to have House Edmund’s troops stationed in Derdriu for the time being, as a precaution.”

Rodrigue bows his head. “Fodlan thanks you all for your support. The Archbishop will be pleased with this development, despite our shortcomings in Daphnel.”

“Think nothing of it,” Claude assures with a hand held up. “General Goneril, you mentioned wanting to talk through possible Imperial tactics. Shall we move on to that matter of business?”

“Yes,” Holst says. “I would defer to Major Aegir on those details. Do you have any details which you might share with us?”

Ferdinand holds his chin in his hand, lost in thought. “If we are anticipating them to move back toward Myrddin, then I would expect reserve units to come from Fort Merceus. Do we have any intelligence on the whereabouts of her other generals? Our reports suggested that General Gautier led the helm of Edelgard’s forces.”

Rodrigue answers, “The reinforcing units which enabled their retreat bore the banners of Houses Bergliez and Ordelia. I do not know how much that might tell you.”

“House Ordelia’s defection to the empire has been well known,” Ferdinand continues. “House Bergliez could have been either Randolph or Caspar. I would expect Randolph or perhaps Ladislava to have been left in charge of Fort Merceus during Edelgard’s departure. The other might have been in charge of Myrddin’s defense. In either case, it matters little. I expect Edelgard to attempt to amass what forces she can to retaliate. Knowing Edelgard’s meticulous nature, I would give her two weeks at minimum before she feels ready to strike again, if not more. We should aim to push our assault before then while they struggle to regroup.”

“All sensible. I trust you to know her the best of any in this room. How soon would you suggest we push forward, then?”

“As soon as we can muster.”

Rodrigue strokes the edges of his mustache around the corners of his mouth. “Two days’ march to the Great Bridge… I believe we can rally our men to be ready to march at week’s end. Would the Alliance be ready with her support by then?”

Holst and Judith answer in unison. “Yes.”

“It sounds as if we have a plan, then,” Claude says. “Excellent. Before we move to the final item on our agenda, are there any other matters to discuss?”

The nobles remain silent, glancing sideways at one another in uncertainty, as if to not interrupt anyone who might have another topic to debate.

“I’ll take the silence as a resounding no. Alright, then. I’ve one more point to discuss: what we would like to do with House Ordelia. The count, after all, decided that he would be renouncing his title within the Alliance. But -- and this falls on you, Duke -- I would like for you to let us figure that out on our own. For now, if you want our help, then we’ll focus on the empire. Agreed?”

“I certainly have no objections,” Rodrigue confirms. “What you choose to do with your own former territories is your business, not ours. We simply seek an end to the war.”

“If I may, milord,” Holst interrupts with a gesture toward Claude, “perhaps House Goneril should lay siege to the territory while we advance? We could re-unify the Alliance while still pressuring Adrestia’s position.”

Claude scoffs at the idea. “The duke’s own report mentioned Ordelian knights among the Adrestian reinforcements. I’d say the count’s daughter assembled those men and led that charge. I wouldn’t count on them having men to fight back, and I won’t have us razing a territory that can’t even defend herself.”

Holst bows. “Of course, as you wish.”

Turning his attention back to the roundtable, Claude clears his throat. “Now, if there are no further thoughts on the matter, then we will call this council to a close. Generals, ready your men. Duke Fraldarius, have your battalion leaders report on their equipment needs to me within an hour. I’ll start arrangements for the essentials for our march. You’re all dismissed.”

* * *

In the chapel near the Riegan estate, the bright afternoon sun blesses the interior with its gracious offering of light. Stained glass windows refract and color the rays into various hues and shades. Their mosaics glow with a radiance befitting such works paying homage to the goddess and her saints.

Marianne kneels in their presence, facing a small effigy depicting a likeness of Saint Macuil. Her face is turned toward the ceiling, eyes closed in prayer. “Dear Goddess,” she whispers, “I pray for your watchful eye to grace our land and our armies. May you keep them safe in the days to come as they march forward into battle. May you keep all those to be involved in the coming conflict safe in the serene embrace of your wings. May you bring a swift end to this conflict… lest we find ourselves lost in the turmoils of war.”

She basks in the warm sunlight for a few moments. A shiver resonates in her body, and goosebumps rise along her skin. She found it strange that she felt such a rush from prayer, though she never thought herself particularly good at it. Perhaps such a rush was the caress of the goddess?

A click comes from the rear of the chapel, the heel of a shoe striking against stone. Marianne looks up and stands, smoothing out the front of her dress. Guests in the chapel were not common at this time of day, aside from herself. “May I help you?” she asks the void.

A woman appears, her dress a mixture of brown and cream, her hat trailing a veil behind her head and over her shoulders. “Pardon me, madam,” she says, stepping into the aisleways between the chapel’s pews. “Please don’t let me disturb you from your prayers!”

Marianne recognizes her instantly. She had always been good with faces. “…Mercedes?”

Mercedes blinks a few times. “…yes, that is my name. How did you— Marianne?”

Marianne smiles, thankful to see that she had not been forgotten. “Mhm. It’s good to see a familiar face in these distressing times. Have you been well?”

Mercedes offers a curt sigh. “Well enough, I suppose,” she says, somber. Her tone shifts back to its usual brightness. “You seem to be doing well, too. I don’t recall ever seeing your hair so neatly kept or your face so well-rested when we were in school.”

Crimson colors Marianne’s cheeks. She scratches at one with a finely trimmed nail. “Yes, well. The last few years have treated me kindly. I had much time for self-reflection after we graduated, and my father had no shortage of ways for me to help with the war. Keeping busy has… helped with all the things I worried about when I was in school. And everyone seems so pleased to have my help! It’s so very different these days.”

“I see,” Mercedes replies, beaming. “I am glad to see you again, and even more delighted to hear that you’ve improved. I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’ve come to offer my midday prayers to the goddess before I start my daily treatment rounds with our wounded.”

“Oh! Please, don’t let me keep you.” Marianne bows. “Her glory commands more attention than I ever could.”

Marianne moves to leave, but her curiosity gets the better of her. How did Mercedes show her faith? She could recall witnessing it once at the monastery, but the memory was so faint… A refresher could not hurt. She takes a seat in one of the chapel’s pews.

Mercedes kneels before the effigy of Saint Macuil, hands held in her lap. The veil draped from the back of her head brushes against the floor below. She turns her eyes up to the effigy’s face, and emotion overwhelms her. “Oh, dearest goddess!” she prays, whispering but with great strength. Her voice rises quickly. “I kneel before you now, meek and humbled by this trial with which you have blessed me. I ask for your further guidance in the days to come, to show me where I must walk so that I might help those who cannot help themselves…”

Marianne watches in silence, her mind devoid of thought and completely absorbed into the display. The power of Mercedes’ prayer cascades through the chapel like a crashing wave beating against Edmund’s shores. In that moment, Marianne recognized how much she had grown in the past year. Where once she might feel inadequate in the face of such faith, now she cannot help but feel moved.

“Extend your reach to those on the battlefield. Let none of them suffer. Let us find a common ground and return peace to this land. May your wings cover their wounds and guide them home. May we all return home safe and sound, guided by your kind hand. May you show us the path of light we must walk to honor your teachings and praise your glory. Blessed be your name.”

Marianne’s lips curl into a smile. That someone else would pray for those things which she did… it warms her heart.

Drained, Mercedes rises from her prayer. She basks in the sunlight for a moment, as Marianne once did, before returning to the pews. Red streaks trail from her face where saline has dried her skin.

“That was lovely, Mercedes,” Marianne praises. “Your faith is inspiring.”

“We are nothing without it, Marianne,” Mercedes croaks, her voice cracked under the duress of fervent prayer. She wipes at her cheeks with her sleeves to dry any remaining tears. A sniffle later, she composes herself. “Would you care to take a stroll with me? I would adore your company.”

Marianne smiles and stands. “Of course.”

The two women stroll together quietly, the only sound at first being the clicks of their heels against the chapel’s marble floor. Outside the chapel, Marianne’s eyes wander around to the assorted birds dotting the trees about the chapel. Sparrows, jays, and magpies flit through the leaves. A heron stands in the pond on the chapel grounds, waiting for a stray fish to snatch. Still, the birds’ songs leave her wanting more. Mercedes had felt quite distant for an old classmate, not that they were ever close to begin with. Perhaps she could strike up a conversation.

“You pray with such fervency, Mercedes,” Marianne says. “Might I ask what inspires your daily prayers?”

Mercedes fumbles through her own thoughts. “Not all of them are so fervent. I do not know what came over me. Perhaps something about today just compelled me.”

“Something about today?” Marianne wonders aloud.

Mercedes glances to the side at Marianne. The streaks of red from her eyes flare in the damp seaside air. “The war is just getting started again. Surely you realize that.”

“All too well,” Marianne says, hanging her head. “You remember Hilda, yes? She’s a very close friend of mine. I’m afraid that she may be asked to march to war with Lord Holst’s forces.”

“My condolences,” Mercedes remarks. “So you pray for her safety?”

Marianne’s face brightens. “Yes! Well, not just hers. The safety of all those who will fight: Faerghan, Leicester, Adrestian… Death shows no mercy to any, regardless of birth.”

“But you do pray for  _ her _ , yes? She occupies a special place in your prayers?”

“I…” Marianne pauses. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”

“I see,” Mercedes says, turning her attention back to the road ahead back toward Riegan manor. “You and I are more alike than you realize, then.”

Marianne’s brow rises. “In what way?”

Mercedes smiles. “A special friend, close to your heart, entrenched in the war against your own wishes to the contrary…” Hints of moisture glisten in her eyes, brightening them with hints of pink. “The goddess will keep Hilda safe, Marianne. I know that for certain.”

Marianne nods. “You’re right. Thank you, Mercedes.”

* * *

The soft purples of twilight give way to twinkles of starlight in the sky over Derdriu. A cool seabreeze whips through the city, and the residents slowly retreat into their homes as night falls. Claude sits alone on the rooftop of Riegan manor, his eyes lingering among the stars, tracing out constellations from Almyran folklore. A hunter chases a ram across the skyline, toward where the sun would rise come morning. The hunter draws his arrow, aimed toward the ram which flees toward the horizon. Claude found the story’s simplicity nostalgic: the never-ending chase between the hunter and his quarry.

“Daydreaming again, Claude?” Hilda’s voice calls from across the roof. She claims a seat next to him on the roof, draping her legs over the eaves of the manor.

Claude pays her little attention, keeping his gaze fixed on the stars. He chirps, “Does it look like daylight out to you? How could I be daydreaming at this hour?”

“Like it has to be daylight out to daydream. Since when are you so uptight and technical?”

“Since… nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Hilda tilts her head at him. “Claude, please. I’m not blind. I can see it in your face. What’s up?”

A deep breath fills Claude’s lungs, and his shoulders slack. “Today has just been draining. Between my little chat with Dimitri this morning, the council, getting ready for that council, getting all the supplies ready to go for the march… I just needed some fresh air.”

“You wanna talk about any of it?” Hilda asks with a frown.

“Did you hear anything from Holst about the council?”

“Aside from him begging me to come along on the march? Nope, not a peep.”

Claude pauses, collecting his thoughts. What even to talk about first? He hangs his head. “Something’s gone wrong with Dimitri. I don’t know what, when, or why, but he’s a completely different man than the one we knew all those years ago. He’s just so… fixated on Edelgard. His hunger for her death is downright ravenous. It worries me. Feels like it’s gonna get us into trouble.”

“That bothers you that much?”

“It wouldn’t bother me so much if we weren’t depending on his armies to beat back the empire. But, with the state of things in the Alliance? I’m not sure we have much choice.”

Hilda pulls her knees to her chest. “What if you didn’t take his help?”

“I almost wish that I hadn’t. But this is Fodlan’s fight, and I’d rather it be settled with Fodlan’s own. It’s not Almyra’s problem to answer. I never intended to get them involved unless my own people’s lives were at stake.”

Tension lingers in the nighttime air. Lost in his own thoughts, Claude’s eyes wander aimlessly. 

“You sure your heart’s in this?” Hilda asks.

“…and just how am I supposed to answer that?”

Hilda’s gaze is sullen, eyes half-lidded with disdain. “With honesty, bonehead. Now out with it. My lips are sealed.”

Claude stops himself for a moment before speaking. Was he certain that he wanted to say this? What if she didn’t agree? Still, she had asked for his honesty. She deserved that much. “I don’t want to kill Edelgard.”

“I don’t think any of us do,” Hilda replies calmly.

A burden lifts from Claude’s shoulders. At least someone felt the same way he did. “Maybe not you, me, or anyone else we went to school with. Dimitri aside, at least. But Holst? Judith? Rodrigue? Even the rank and file, they just see her as the enemy. Church propaganda paints her to be like some kind of monster.” He lifts his head, only for his eyes to fall shut. “At the council, Lorenz talked about her expressing remorse over the lives that had been lost to her war. And Teach followed her to the ends of the earth. Do you think Teach is a monster, Hilda?”

“Can’t say that I do,” she answers.

“Ashe? Lysithea? Sylvain? I don’t know if I could call any of them monsters. They’re just fighting for what they believe in.”

“Okay, first, strike that last one. Let’s not give that kid too much credit.”

The two of them share a laugh at Sylvain’s expense. Any remaining tension over the situation evaporates. In that moment, Claude realizes that he had forgotten how to lean on people, and how special some of his old classmates had become to him.

As their laughter subsides, Hilda continues, “When you announced that House Ordelia had departed the Alliance, I wasn’t sure what to think. Back in the day, I was skeptical of our dear little Lys joining the Eagles, but I told her that I’d support her choice no matter what. Leonie I kind of expected. She’d follow the professor until the ends of the earth if she could.”

“Do you think the same of them now?” Claude queries.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I was mad at first. But after thinking about it? Yeah. I do. I’m still not thrilled about it, and I’d rather they still be with us, obviously, but it’s still their choice to make.”

“So you see where I’m coming from. Our Faerghus classmates… they don’t seem to see it that way. It’s just another enemy to vanquish.”

Hilda drums her legs back and forth over the eaves of the manor. “I’m not so sure. I don’t really have anything to base that off of, but it’s just a hunch. Some of them were pretty tight-knit, you know.”

Claude looks back over the cityscape. “I don’t want to make it sound like I’m sympathetic to Edelgard’s cause. What she’s fighting for? A brand new world where no one is judged by their birthright, but instead by their merits? I can live with that. That’s a fantastic ideal to strive for. Maybe I’m a bit of an opportunist to ride on the coattails of this war, but… I could say that I’m fighting for that same ideal.”

“What do you mean?”

Claude snickers. “Sorry. I’ve said a little too much. I need to keep that one my secret for now.”

Hilda rolls her eyes. “Ugh. You’re always so hard-headed.”

“I trust you with a lot of things. But I can’t trust anyone with that just yet. Maybe someday soon.” Looking through the city roads below, he notices the vibrance with which the people move and interact with each other. Even in wartime, they found community. “Just know that I’m imagining a world where we grow together, not just the people of Fodlan, but Dagda, Brigid, Almyra… all living together peacefully.”

“That’s… pretty hard to imagine,” Hilda says, wide-eyed.

“Is it? I don’t think it’s so bad. Give it a try.”

Hilda strains herself, looking out over the same cityscape. She sees men and women skittering through the streets amongst themselves, tending to their own worries. “Sorry. I’m just not quite as imaginative as you are.”

“That’s quite alright. One day, you won’t have to be.”

A smile creeps across Claude’s face, the first that Hilda had seen from him all day. He wears a lighter look on his face and a brighter glow in his eyes, as if his anxieties had been washed clean and replaced with hope. She makes a mental note to herself: force him to talk more often.

Claude turns to her, bearing his trademark grin. “Hey, Hilda? Thanks for chatting. It helps to have someone to vent all this stuff at.”

She matches his cheery demeanor. “Listen, I can only imagine what kind of headaches you’re going through. The least I can do is try to bear some of that load for you.”

“I appreciate it. I know I’m not the best at opening up.”

“You can say that again. You’ve got this giant wall around yourself. You need to let people in, Claude.” She reaches over to rest a hand on his shoulder. “No one expects you to do this alone.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

A shiver runs down her spine. She pats his shoulder before rising to her feet. “Now come on, it’s starting to get cold and dark. I’m freezing, and I need a bath before bed. Last few days I’ll have to really feel clean for the next who-knows-how-long surrounded by all these sweaty men in suits of armor.”

Claude sneers at her. “Just think about it like this: all the more to take over your chores.”

“You know me so well.”

They share another laugh. “You head on ahead,” Claude says. “I’ll be right behind you. I just wanna look at the stars for a little longer.”

“Suit yourself,” Hilda replies.

Her heels click against the surface of the roof as she departs. The staircase door slams shut behind her. Satisfied with his solitude, Claude looks back up at the stars. He searches for that same pair of constellations as before: the hunter and the ram. A man on a never-ending journey in the search for his quarry. How that story had inspired him. The stars always had lessons to teach, and in this one, Claude had found the lesson of persistence.

No matter how far out of reach his goal might feel, no matter how hard his own friends had to imagine a better, inter-connected world… He would see to it.

Claude rises to his feet, dusts off the front of his tunic, and heads for the staircase back into Riegan manor. Hilda was right; it was late, and he needed his rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fated meeting between Dimitri and Claude. And, as expected, they don't exactly see _eye-to-eye_. :^)
> 
> (Yes, the implication in the start of that scene and the war council is that Dimitri has lost his eye. Felt pertinent to draw a tie between CF Dimitri who has both and AM/VW Dimitri who has lost one.)
> 
> Also, another glimpse into how Felix is coping as a follow-up from the previous chapter. Spoiler: he ain't doin' so hot.
> 
> With a combined army effort from Faerghus and Leicester, Edelgard is going to have her back against the wall soon. She's going to have to move quickly if she wants to pivot the momentum back into her favor. Here's hoping that Adrestia can find the time to lick its wounds and re-establish its morale after a crushing loss. We'll check in with the Eagles in the next chapter~


	16. Clipped Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrestia regroups after a crushing defeat.

_ 26th Day of the Guardian Moon, 1186 _  
_ Imperial Encampment, Ordelia _

A pulse of magic from Dorothea’s fingertips radiates across tattered skin, and fresh blood leaks from the corners of the dried wound. Sharp, jagged echoes of the lesion’s pain creep up Dorothea’s arm. The searing heat of the cut sprawls outward, drawing goosebumps along her skin. She holds her focus steady; the morsel of Byleth’s trauma elicits a gentle whimper, muffled by her pursed lips. The wound slowly stitches back together under her influence, topped over with fresh scar tissue.

Edelgard sits to the side of Byleth’s provisioned cot in the infirmary tent. She sips at a small cup of tea, her hands quivering as the hot rim of the cup meets her lips. The warmth in her throat temporarily calms her nerves. “Is she doing well?”

Dorothea wipes her hand across her brow and tosses aside the sweat with a flick of her wrist. “For a girl who took a set of gashes like these? Yeah, I’d say she’s doing great. Her wounds are surprisingly shallow, almost like he wasn’t even trying to kill her. Very strange.”

Edelgard takes another sip of her tea. “Very interesting, indeed… How long do you think she’ll be out of commission?”

Another wound crawls up Dorothea’s arm as she tends to broken flesh. “Edie, I’ll be honest with you,” she answers through a few pained grunts. “If this was gonna be something short-term, then I imagine she’d be awake already. I can’t say for sure how long she’ll be out. I know that that’s not fair and you expect better from me, but—”

Edelgard reaches for Dorothea’s shoulder, and Dorothea’s focus falters. “If you don’t know, then that’s okay. We’ll just have to manage without her for a bit. Hopefully not for much longer.”

The flow of aether from Dorothea’s hand trickles to a halt. “Right. Sorry. Just… I’m worried, too, you know?”

“I know. Forgive me, I’ve interrupted your treatments. I should—”

“No, no, I was just wrapping up. She should be fine for now until the next nurse does her rounds.” Dorothea wrings her hands together, as if to strip them of the pain still lingering in her joints. 

“I see.” Edelgard turns her eyes onto Byleth’s still body. Stripes of rosy flesh peek through the slices in her garb, marring otherwise pale skin, though they find themselves right at home among other scars from past battles. Edelgard reaches for a limp hand and holds it in her palm. “Would the nurses mind if I stayed here until we march?”

“I can’t imagine that they would, but don’t you have duties to attend to before then?”

“Sylvain knows the plan. He’s capable, and he’s far more talented at logistics than I could ever be. I trust him to keep things running smoothly without me.”

Dorothea notices a gentle stroke from Edelgard’s thumb across the back of Byleth’s hand. She smiles. “Understood. I’ll make sure that he knows you’re not to be disturbed. I won’t let anyone else through. You won’t get bored, will you? I could stay for a little longer if you need someone to chat with.”

Edelgard shakes her head. A few loose strands of white hair fall in front of her face; she tucks them behind her ear. “It shouldn’t be much longer. A few hours at most, time enough for me to think. Besides… I could use that time to decompress.”

Dorothea frowns. “Edie, did something bad happen to you? You don’t need to hide from me.”

Edelgard stifles a laugh. Nothing could ever slip by Dorothea, one of many reasons she’d been hand-selected to be a personal advisor. “It’s nothing that I can’t bear on my own. Please, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“I do wish that you’d open up a bit more, but if this is what you want, then I won’t argue. I’ll come find you again when it’s time to leave.”

A smile curls onto Edelgard’s lips, perhaps the first genuine one since Daphnel had fallen. “Thank you, Dorothea. I appreciate it.”

Dorothea makes her way out of the tent. Finally alone, Edelgard’s eyes linger on her captain’s face. “Now, Byleth,” Edelgard says, “what did I tell you about this hair of yours?” Edelgard brushes a stray lock of hair away from Byleth’s forehead; Byleth does not protest. Satisfied with her small work, Edelgard releases a sigh, as if she were shrugging a heavy burden from her shoulders at the end of a long day’s march. Her grip on Byleth’s hand tightens. “We’re thankful to not have suffered heavier losses, I suppose. Still… I cannot help but wonder, where must we go from here?”

Outside the tent, two familiar faces wait for Dorothea. Lysithea paces in circles in front of the entrance. Leonie sits on the ground, legs crossed, tracing abstract shapes in the dirt. Dorothea’s brow perks in surprise. “Oh. Good morning, you two.”

Lysithea stops pacing, and Leonie stops drawing. The former’s face brightens. “Good morning, Dorothea. I trust that you’ve been well these past few days?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. I swear, I’m not cut out for this whole war thing.” She glances at Leonie, unsure of what to say. “Leonie. It’s been a while. You grew your hair out.”

Leonie claws through the orange strands hanging across her left shoulder. “Yeah, I did. Just felt like doing it, I guess.”

“It looks good on you,” Dorothea remarks, rather matter-of-factly. “I assume you two are here to see the lovebirds?”

Leonie sighs in relief and rubs her forehead. “Thank the goddess, I’m not the only one who noticed that terribly awkward romantic tension between them.”

Lysithea looks at each of Leonie and Dorothea with a puzzled expression.

Dorothea giggles. “You two haven’t even seen them together recently. I’ve been with them both since we found Byleth at the monastery ruins. It’s… awfully transparent.”

“Lemme guess,” Leonie continues. “Edelgard hasn’t left her side once since we left Daphnel.”

“Not a chance. Though, I must admit, I might have had something to do with that.”

Leonie rolls her eyes.

“Pardon me,” Lysithea chimes in, “but I feel awfully left out of this exchange.”

Leonie plops a hand on top of Lysithea’s head. “You’ll understand when you’re older, kid.”

Lysithea bares her teeth at Leonie and snarls. “I’m a grown adult now, you know!”

Leonie swats her away, holding her at arm’s length. She turns her attention back to Dorothea. “Are the two of them doing okay, at least? You know, situation aside.”

A pained expression colors Dorothea’s face. “Edie just asked the same question about Byleth, and… well, she’s still out. That should tell you enough. As for Edie herself, Lysithea should know well enough how she is. She won’t let anyone think of her as weak in a time like this. Gotta keep that strong façade up for the sake of morale. Or for making sure that none of us who are close to her worry too much.”

“Unfortunate,” Lysithea remarks with a frown. “Do you think that Edelgard is okay enough for us to see her? Just for a quick hello, of course. I’m sure that she’s in no mind to talk about the war itself.”

“She seemed like she wanted to be alone for now. She might make an exception for close friends, but I’m not so sure; she didn’t even let me sing her a song or keep her company in the meantime. But… I suppose it doesn’t hurt to ask. Wait here and let me check.” Dorothea slinks away, retreating back into the infirmary tent.

The sound of rustling cloth draws Edelgard’s attention back to the entrance, where Dorothea already waits. “…Is everything alright, Dorothea?” she asks. “It’s not even been five minutes.”

Dorothea offers a curtsy. “Sorry for the intrusion, but I just wanted to check. Would you be okay with exactly two visitors? You know, hypothetically.”

Edelgard sighs. Disappointed, she queries, “Who is it?”

“Lysithea and Leonie.”

Her face brightens slightly. At least familiar faces should know when best to leave. “I suppose so, if they are here on friendly business.” Lysithea, she suspects, would have something to talk about, more than just friendly business. Given her suspicions, she did not feel as if she could decline.

Dorothea departs again. Edelgard offers another stroke of her knuckles against the back of Byleth’s hand, relishing the last of their brief silence together. She reclaims her seat, holding her teacup in her lap. Her reflection stares back at her, unmasking the vulnerability in her eyes. She could not be weak at a time like this. She could not be weak ever.

Another rustle of cloth draws her attention. At the entrance, Lysithea bows, and Leonie offers a salute. Edelgard—down-trodden though she was—smiles at the display, at the nonsensical formality of it all. “So, my saviors come to pay me a visit.”

“It’s good to see you somewhere other than a battlefield, Edelgard,” Lysithea says. “How are your wounds healing?”

“Well enough, I suppose. Nothing that I won’t be able to power through in a few days’ or weeks’ time.” It carried some grain of truth, she thought to herself. At least wounds of the flesh would heal quickly.

“And what about By?” Leonie asks.

Edelgard looks to the woman lying on the cot next to her. “She’s still resting. Dorothea assures me that she’ll be alright.”

Leonie pouts, holding her hands on her hips as if she were expecting more certainty in that answer. Her eyes fixate on the captain for a long while, quivering with pain. Edelgard takes notice, but lingers in her silence.

“Is something the matter, Leonie?” Lysithea asks.

Leonie chews on her lower lip. “No, just…” She turns to Edelgard. “I don’t mean to step on your toes, Your Majesty, but do you mind if I sit with her?”

Edelgard reads her perfectly. “Not at all,” she says, rising from her chair. “I’m certain that Lysithea would like to speak with me, anyways.”

“Am I that easy to read?” Lysithea asks, surprised.

“Like an open book. Come, let’s talk.”

As Leonie claims the open seat by the infirmary cot, Edelgard and Lysithea retreat further into the tent. “I’m quite certain,” Lysithea continues, too impatient to wait for total privacy, “that if you’ve already read me that well, then you know exactly what I wanted to speak with you about.”

“I have a hunch,” Edelgard remarks. “This is about your family, isn’t it?”

They come to rest in a back corner of the tent. Lysithea shakes her head before staring at the floor, dejected. “Precisely. With our retreat back to Adrestian territory, I must fear for their safety. My father rescinded his position as a noble within the Alliance not even two weeks ago. I’m worried about what might happen to my family because of it, and that’s to say nothing of what might happen to the innocent bystanders.”

Edelgard maintains her steady, stoic expression, her face as solid as bedrock. “Do you think that Claude is the type to lash out at you for leaving him?”

“No, but he is the least of my worries. I cannot say the same for the other lords. Count Gloucester and Lord Goneril may not be so merciful.”

“I see.” Edelgard reaches forward, her hand brushing against Lysithea’s shoulder. “You’ll be pleased to know, then, that I’ve already had that discussion with Sylvain and Dorothea.”

Lysithea’s eyes glimmer to life. “You… you what, now?”

“I figured it best not to wait for your request. Did you think it wouldn’t have crossed any of our minds?” Edelgard giggles, succumbing to the temptation to tease Lysithea even now. “As we speak, a messenger should be on their way to your family’s estate to inform him of the situation, and an evacuation caravan should not be far behind, should they choose to accept it. I won’t let your family suffer for our missteps, Lysithea. They swore to lend us their aid, so I would feel remiss not extending my hand if I could.”

Lysithea’s eyes water, glistening with a thin film of stifled tears. She lurches forward, arms extended, throwing them around Edelgard’s waist in a tight embrace. “Thank you, Edelgard,” she says, her voice crackling beneath a sob. “I can’t find words to express my gratitude.”

Edelgard brings her hand to the base of Lysithea’s neck, her fingers running through strands of silky white hair. “I’m just looking out for my people,” she replies. “Ordelia may not be truly Adrestian, but I will see that we treat them as our own. And I am, admittedly, rather partial to their daughter. Enough that I’ve come to think of her as my own family.”

Lysithea scoffs and rolls her eyes out of view. “You’d best not be pandering to me. You know better than that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Edelgard says, her voice colored by a quiet, stifled giggle. “Is that all that you wished to talk about?”

Lysithea pats the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. “For now, yes. Just… give me a moment. That went far better than I anticipated.”

“Please, think nothing of it. I am doing what is expected of me.” Edelgard looks past Lysithea, idly checking on Leonie and Byleth. The former still sits in the same position as before, just to the side of the infirmary cot. “Come, let’s not keep Leonie guessing.”

As they approach Byleth’s cot, Leonie looks over her shoulder, alerted by the soft trod of their footsteps. “Y’all weren’t gone very long,” she says, noticing the pink streaks in Lysithea’s eyes. “Everything okay?”

“Quite,” Lysithea answers with a sniffle. “Just… surprisingly emotional, but nothing to be worried about.”

“Is she still doing alright?” Edelgard asks, approaching the side of Byleth’s cot.

Leonie nods. “I’ve just been watching her chest heave as she breathes. It’s… weirdly relaxing. Don’t ask me why, I couldn’t tell you.”

“I understand. Lysithea? Would you mind giving me a moment to speak privately with Leonie?”

Leonie looks back and forth between the two women, aghast.

“Of course,” Lysithea remarks. “I’ll not keep you any longer.”

Edelgard looks through the tent for an empty chair while Lysithea departs. “I trust that you don’t mind,” she spouts into the aether amid her search.

“I have to say that I’m a bit intimidated,” Leonie replies.

“You’ve certainly told me that before. I recall you saying something like that before we left for the Sealed Forest to hunt down Monica.” Finding a chair, Edelgard pulls it to the side of the cot, positioning it so that she can face Leonie. “But enough about me. I understand that you’ve come to us from an enlistment in the Leicester armies. I’m surprised; I always understood you to be more of the mercenary type. Were you part of a formal enlistment?”

Leonie’s brow arches. “Is this a weird game of twenty questions? You can just get to the point, if so. I’m not that easily offended by a brash question.”

“No, no, I promise that this is not some kind of interrogation. Just consider me naturally curious as to the history of my most recent recruit, especially given that this is not your first time with us. You can think of it as catching up, if you’d like.”

“Oh. Frankly, I never thought of you as the genuinely curious type. You always seemed so… cold, so calculating.”

“That’s unfortunate. I had hoped that your time in the Black Eagles had shown you that I  _ am _ , in fact, a person, and not just some enigma. I suppose that Hubert has his way of rubbing off on me. But please, sate my curiosity.”

Leonie pauses and chews on her lower lip. “I was a formal enlistment in Judith’s ranks. I assume you know the name.”

“The Hero of Daphnel?”

“The very same, but I guess you already gathered that, since you and I were both at Myrddin. She granted me the rank of colonel, though I never really cared for the formalities of it. Posh military folk are too snobby and uptight for my taste, especially in battle.”

“Is that so? What encouraged you to stay, then?”

“Claude, honestly. He’s incredibly charismatic, and surprisingly relatable to someone like me. He doesn’t act like the other nobles. I won’t lie, it really hurt to leave.”

“How so?”

“Felt like I might be leaving everyone behind. I knew that I’d have to see them again somewhere on the battlefield. To tell you the truth, I’m still terrified of it. Familiar faces across the way, shooting arrows and swinging their blades at you… never understood how to really cope with it as a mercenary until now. Guess that was By’s final lesson for me. Definitely wasn’t expecting it.”

“And you’re at peace with that? You must know that a trail of blood runs at my—at our feet along this path. I can’t force you to follow us.”

Leonie’s gaze fixates on Byleth for a moment. “I made a promise to Captain Jeralt all those years ago at the monastery: that I’d protect her in his stead, if he ever couldn’t. That’s why I joined the Eagles in the first place. I aim to make good on that promise. I’m nothing if not a woman of my word.”

“You seem rather fond of her.”

“In a way, yeah. She’s pretty inspiring. Just a common mercenary, but she has such strength. I’m always in awe when watching her fight. She’s worked so hard… it just makes me want to work harder.”

“She is quite inspiring, isn’t she?”

A growl rumbles through the infirmary. Edelgard’s eyes widen at the sound. Leonie sits up, fully alert, and her cheeks flush. Standing, she bows. “Excuse me. I’m gonna see if I can scrounge up a quick bite before we march. Will you be okay here with her? I can at least grab something for you.”

Edelgard offers a smile, though it does not reach her eyes. “That’s quite alright, Leonie. I’m not very hungry.”

Leonie frowns, as if she could see right through Edelgard. “Suit yourself,” she says, and she departs the tent.

Edelgard, finally alone again in the infirmary, retrieves Byleth’s hand once more. She lingers in the silence for a few moments, as if waiting for some other urgent messenger to come and break her solitude. None comes.

The weight falls again from her shoulders and topples her final wall, one that she had built up for today’s appearances. So many things to think about from Daphnel: the state of the army, inventory on casualties and supplies, a plan of attack from here forward, knowing that Faerghus would be on their tail. And then, of course, there was its king. Five years had come and gone since she had last seen him; judging by what she remembered of his appearance, none of them had been good for him. He had carried the same vacant, glazed look in his eyes as he did when they squared off one final time at Garreg Mach.

Their battle flashes before her eyes. The thick scent of smoke hangs in the air. Dimitri’s voice bellows of black-and-white chivalric ideals, of his duty to his father’s throne, of how he must mete out vengeance for ‘her crimes.’

His voice lingers in her ears like a cold whisper, piercing her heart with the jagged edge of a rusted dagger. “After all these years, you will at least give me the satisfaction of watching the light leave your eyes, El.”

Her forehead bursts open in pain. How could he know that name? None still living had ever called her that. She swats the demons away, banishing them back into the depths of her psyche. They could not bother her just yet. She could not allow them to take control of her.

Byleth’s hand still lingers motionless in her palm. Her fingers are long, slender, their sides lined with scars and the fleshy bellies dotted with callouses typical of a fighter. Edelgard takes a deep breath and squeezes.

“Don’t leave me alone for too long, Byleth,” she says. “Another five years would kill me.”

* * *

“She’s been restrained?” Sylvain poses his question to the on-duty prison guard. He carries a small sack at his side, filled with a ration from the main camp. Normally, he would not be the type to show preferential treatment to a prisoner; these were not normal circumstances.

“Of course,” the guard replies. “Our mages afflicted her with a silencing hex as soon as she was brought to the retreat caravan. Took a damn good number of them to keep her down.”

“No surprise there. She always was talented. Well, at least she won’t have a chance to burn me to a pile of ash.” He pinches the bridge of his nose before casually brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I’d like to see her.”

“Er… pardon my intrusion, sir, but on what grounds?”

“Just a chat between old friends. In private, preferably. I’d rather ask than issue an order. Hopefully you understand.”

The guard freezes in place. “Are you quite certain, sir? She may still be dangerous, and she is  _ just _ a prisoner.”

“She might be, but I have at least a little bit of history with her. I’d like to remind her of that.”

With a nod, the guard beckons for Sylvain to follow him. The journey to the designated cell is short. The surrounding prisoners look up from their bindings as the Adrestians pass by. Sylvain prayed that none of them would recognize him for who he was; he would have enough to handle with her alone.

Finally, they arrive. A ring of aether emanates around her cell, a final line of defense should she find some way to overpower the silencing hex. She hums a melancholy tune to entertain herself in the solitude, a comforting sound for both herself and the surrounding Faerghus captives. Alerted by the coming footsteps, her eyes narrow in disdain. The guard bids Sylvain farewell and leaves him alone with her.

Sylvain toes the aetherial line of the warding circle. “Surprised to see me?”

“You could say that,” she answers with a scowl. “What do you want?”

“Just wanted to drop by. Figured I’d say hello, at least for old times’ sake.” He drops his small sack just inside the warding line. “I brought you a ration, in case you were hungry.”

She eyes the sack warily. “What old times’ sake? You left. What’s there to reminisce about?”

“Annette, please. At least give me a chance to talk. We were classmates.”

“And that’s all we ever were. You helped me with my homework once or twice. That was very nice of you. Want me to sugarcoat more of the details for you to make you feel better?”

Sylvain’s brow wrinkles. “I’m not here to take your shit, Annette. I know that you’re not comfortable here, but I’m trying my best to make it better for you, okay?”

“Sorry, just my time of the month, you know? Nothing to do with my hands being bound in some uncomfortable chains, a bunch of guards watching my every move and invading my privacy, that warding spell to keep me from tapping into my usual aether currents… You wanna explain any of that?”

Sylvain remains silent.

“Didn’t think so.”

“You really think I want to see you tortured? Stop and think for a damned second. I wouldn’t have you still here if we planned to torture you; you’d already be on some dingy cart getting shipped to Fort Merceus, or Enbarr, or wherever else. You’re with us because I know you won’t be hurt here. Am I clear on that?”

“Spare me the waterworks. You’ve given us all reason enough to cry already by being here in the first place. Just what would Ingrid think if she saw you like this?”

Sylvain curls his fists tightly. His teeth squeal against one another. The venom wells on his tongue. “She has nothing to do with this, and you know it. I’m disgusted that you’d try to invoke her name against me. You’re better than that.” He turns away abruptly. “I’ll just see myself off. You can send a guard for me if you decide that you want to talk.”

“So you  _ do _ intend to make me talk.”

“That’s not—fine. Don’t know why I bother.”

Dissatisfied and frustrated, Sylvain takes his leave. His stomps echo through the prison grounds. Annette pulls her knees to her chest and begins to hum to herself again, as if it might make her situation feel normal.

* * *

Ashe stares at his ration, rubbing his forehead with a pair of fingers while rummaging through its contents with a set of silverware. The spurious sounds of the other soldiers scarfing down their own meals blend into background noise. He frowns as he turns over a slice of potato, seemingly uninterested in his midday meal.

His dining buddy notices. Caspar lurches forward, still chewing through a mouthful of his own ration. “Everything alright there, bud?”

Ashe’s eyes fell halfway shut in a solemn expression. “Hm? Oh, it’s nothing,” he says, returning to rummaging through his food.

Caspar frowns. “That look on your face sure says a lot more than ‘nothing.’ Out with it.”

“Sorry, I’m just a little conflicted.” Ashe sets his silverware to the side, shoving the dish out of the way to clear a spot for him to rest his chin on his hands.

“Okay, conflicted, that’s a start. Now, about what?”

“Well, just…” It couldn't be that simple, could it? He looks to his rear, and there she sits: minding her own business, scarfing down a meal of her own with the fervor of a famished beast. Even seeing her like this stirs his stomach. It  _ was _ that simple. “Leonie being here,” he continues to Caspar, “even though she was on the other side just a few weeks ago.”

“So what? People change sides. I’m not about to put her through hell or somethin’ like that, and neither should you.” Caspar shoves another spoonful of stew into his mouth, chewing loudly—and talking through his mouthful. “If she wants to be here, and enough people are willin’ to have her? I don’t see an issue with it.”

Ashe lays his head back on the table, only his forehead touching its surface as he stares at the ground. It can’t be that easy. She can’t just show up and be on our side again, right? “Caspar?” he asks, the echoes muffled as they ricochet between the earth and the table’s underside.

Caspar swallows a mouthful. “You say something, bud? Couldn’t hear.”

Ashe looks up again. “Do you trust her?”

“You’re askin’ the wrong guy, pal. I can’t say much about  _ why _ she’s here. All I know is that Lysithea trusts her, and that she was adamant that we bring her along. I trust Lysithea well enough, she’s been with us for so long that she feels like part of the family. And then Leonie kicked some major ass at the last battle, and at the monastery way back when. Why  _ wouldn’t _ I trust her?”

“I just don’t know. You weren’t there at Myrddin. You didn’t see what I saw.”

“Then lay it on me.”

The visions came to him as clear as if they had happened yesterday. “I saw her attack the captain out of the blue and run after she was caught. And then, I saw her while I was out scouting the woods and the paths leading toward Derdriu. She almost shot me there too!” He looks to the side, dejected. “And… she brought up Christophe and Lonato, like she could relate to me somehow.”

Caspar swallows his mouthful. “I’m sorry, bud. That sounds like it must’ve hurt pretty bad.”

“It did. I was so angry, so frustrated. I… I don’t think I’ve ever lashed out at someone like that in my life.”

Caspar nods in understanding. “I getcha. It’s okay to feel that burst of anger sometimes. But at the same time, are you really gonna let that just blot out all the times we had together at the academy? Think about how much she helped you and Bernie with archery practice. About how hard she fought when we were huntin’ down Monica. Those actions speak way louder to me than a few slip-ups when she might have been confused or somethin’.” Caspar cleans his spoon off with a wipe through his lips. “I might not know exactly why she’s here, but she definitely  _ is _ —I can see her right there, for cryin’ out loud!—and that says somethin’.”

Ashe rolls his eyes. “You’re probably right, but you don’t have to get so preachy.”

Caspar bolts to life, standing and banging his hands against the table. “Preachy? And just when has ol’ Caspar’s advice ever steered you wrong?”

“Plenty of times.”

“Alright, listen, that  _ one time _ charging the hawk? Strategic genius. It was all part of the plan! I needed to distract it so you and Bernie could shoot it down! Definitely does not count.”

Caspar maintains a straight face for a few moments, and Ashe arches a brow in reply. Their stone facades do not last long, evaporating into uproarious laughter at the fond memory.

“Now,” Caspar remarks as their laughter subsides, “you’re feeling a little cheerier now, yeah? Go talk to her. You got some making up to do.”

“Fine, fine,” Ashe replies while picking himself up. “No promises, I guess. But you’re right. I have to at least try.” His heart thuds in his chest with such force as if it might leap into his throat. He puffs his chest, pulling in a deep breath of fresh air to calm his nerves. Every step feels laborious, his legs pulsing in protest.

Leonie sits alone on the ground with her legs crossed and her back turned to him. Just say something, Ashe. Anything at all. It’s really not that hard. “Leonie.”

She looks over her shoulder, brow raised, still chewing on a mouthful of stew. “Oh. Um... hi?”

“So,” Ashe says, kicking at the dirt in idle anxiety. “You made it here, after all.”

She swallows her bite. “Can we not make this awkward? I know you’re no fan of me, and I kind of deserve it, but I just want to eat my dinner right now.”

“I’m not really trying to make this awkward! I just… I came to see how you were doing.”

“Wait… really? I’m gonna be honest, that’s not what I was expecting after what happened in the woods.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea, I’ve still got my eyes on you! But, I just... I’m still not sure if I can trust you, even though I want to.”

Leonie scoffs at him. “Gimme a sec.” With the rim against her lips, she up-ends her bowl, funnelling what little remains of her meal down her throat. After one final swallow, she wipes the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. She stands, hands held on her hips, and continues, “Alright, look. I know that I hit a bad spot of yours when we last met in the woods. I let my temper get the best of me, and I threw out the first thing I could think of. That was wrong, and… I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

Ashe’s brow furrows. “I’m not here for an apology.”

“Alright, then why  _ are _ you here? It’s surely not just to ‘check up on me,’ and the way you’re hanging your head tells me it’s not just to chat. Out with it.”

He pauses. Why couldn’t he just be honest? “I screwed up,” he says, “and I’m still screwing up. I want to trust you because of our time together at the monastery, but I can’t get past being scared for the captain with you around. I can’t get over when I saw you shoot at her.”

Leonie groans. “You’re gonna hold a grudge against me for that, aren’tcha?”

“I’m just trying to keep her safe!” He tightens his fists, and hones his focus on the earth beneath his feet.

“You’ve gotta let go of those ideals if you’re gonna survive this war, Ashe. Not everything is black and white. People make mistakes. By, Lys, even Edelgard. Goddess only knows I’ve made more than my fair share of ‘em.” She bumps her fist against Ashe’s shoulder. Only now does she realize how much taller he’s gotten over the years. “I can’t make you trust me, but I can at least ask you to give me a chance. Lys trusts me. Edelgard at least seems to trust me enough that she’ll let me get close to By in the first place. Just give me time. I’ll prove you wrong.”

Ashe lifts his head, and their gazes meet. Leonie’s eyes glisten in the mid-day sun with a sincere, determined fire. He could sense it. “Fine,” he snaps, “I’ll let you have your shot. But if you misstep, I’m the first that you’ll have to go through, got it?”

“As clear as crystal,” Leonie replies with a determined smile. “I’ll do my best. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go find Lys. Girl won’t eat any real food unless I tell her to.”

Leonie departs in the direction of the officers’ tents. Ashe returns to his seat at the table with Caspar.

“Well, how’d it go?” his lunch partner asks before Ashe even has a chance to reclaim his seat.

“I’m sorry, Caspar. I’m not strong enough to fully trust her, not yet.”

“That’s okay,” Caspar replies as he stands. He circles the table, resting a hand on Ashe’s shoulder. “We all make mistakes. Just part of being people. You’ll find that strength, I know it.”

There it was again, that same lesson. Ashe twirls his spoon through the cold remnants of his stew, rolling through the same thoughts as before. Could he really grow to trust her? Was she right about his ideals? Could he survive with those intact?

He finishes his meal in silence.

* * *

_ 27th Day of the Guardian Moon _  
_ Late Evening _  
_ Myrddin _

Edelgard, Sylvain, and Dorothea enter the officers’ chambers in the fortifications at the Great Bridge. Ladislava rises from her chair to greet them. With a bow, she says, “Your Majesty. It is a blessing to see you in such good condition. When the messenger informed me of the army’s return to the bridge, I feared the worst.”

“It will take more than a few wounds to break me, Ladislava,” Edelgard replies. “I trust that the Great Bridge has been quiet for the past week?”

“Of course. Little more than a skirmish here or there between our scouting units and independent armies. The Alliance appears to have shown little interest in re-taking Myrddin thus far.”

“No surprises there, knowing what we know now,” Sylvain remarks, leaning against a wall. “Our focus on Derdriu led us right into a trap. It was brilliant, and Claude played us for fools. Though, honestly, I’m still trying to make sense of how they were able to mobilize Faerghus so quickly. It should have taken them weeks to organize. Even if the Alliance knew that we would attack Myrddin a couple days in advance, they wouldn’t have made it to Derdriu until a week from now.”

“Maybe there’s a spy in our ranks?” Dorothea suggests. “That’s the simplest explanation, I would think.”

Edelgard shakes her head. “There’s no sense in worrying about the how or why of what happened. We can find answers to those questions after we regain our momentum. Ladislava, you’ve sent our messengers to Fort Merceus and to Brigid, I presume?”

Ladislava nods. “Our fastest aerial messenger to Brigid, as requested. And, if you would forgive me for a bit of independent action, I’ve sent for an extra messenger to Hrym territory. If we’re to meet the Kingdom again, we will need our best.”

Edelgard pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Hubie and Jeritza, huh?” Dorothea ponders. “We think it’s gonna be that bad?”

“Better to prepare for the worst,” Sylvain says. “Faerghus brought her best to that siege, and then some. We should do the same. Our ‘elite task force’ won’t cut it anymore against an army of that size, especially if the Alliance joins them.”

“I had hoped,” Edelgard continues, “that we would not be put in this position. But Sylvain is right. We need all we can muster, even if their own preparations are not yet complete. Ladislava, for the reinforcing armies from Merceus and Brigid, Do you know how soon we could expect either of them?”

“Could be days or weeks. Knowing Randolph? I’d expect closer to the latter. He’ll want ample time to ensure that his men are in top form. As for Brigid, I’ve no idea, but I would give Petra a few weeks, given the distance.”

“Mid-month, then,” Dorothea muses. “That’s when we can expect to be in full fighting shape, again?”

Edelgard hangs her head. “It would seem so, yes. Hopefully Hubert and Jeritza will be here sooner than that.” Her eyes twitch. “Preferably only the two of them. I’d rather not entertain joining forces with Arundel.”

“I don’t like it either,” Sylvain continues, “but we should be prepared to take his help, if we need it.”

The report from Fhirdiad still weighs heavily on her mind. “Only as a last resort,” she says.

“What about Byleth?” Dorothea queries. “She’s still out of commission, and I haven’t the foggiest when she’ll be in fighting shape again.”

“We’ll be fine enough without her,” Sylvain says.

Dorothea frowns. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because we don’t have any other choice. If we’re lucky… if the goddess smiles on us, then she’d miraculously wake up tomorrow. But I’m not about to count on that, and neither should anyone else in this room. Ladislava should resume her command of the Guard in the meantime, if we need to stand and fight.”

“They won’t press their attack so soon,” Ladislava says. “Not a chance in hell, from what I read from the report. We suffered heavy casualties in Daphnel, but so did Faerghus. They will need time of their own to recover.”

“You might be right,” Sylvain replies with a shrug. “Still, let’s try to cover our bases.”

“Speaking of,” Edelgard continues, “Sylvain, do you have any word from the messenger we sent to Ordelia?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. The Count is taking us up on our offer. They should be arriving within the next few days to seek passage into Adrestia.”

“Excellent. I would feel remiss if any harm came to them. And has Lysithea been informed?”

“Aye, Your Majesty. I relayed the message to her as soon as it came to my attention.”

“Perfect.” Edelgard draws a deep breath. “It seems, then, that all of our affairs are in order. Merceus and Brigid will reinforce us here at the bridge. They should arrive in time for Faerghus to meet us here in our next stand. Hopefully, Ladislava’s messenger to Hrym will be able to meet with Hubert and Jeritza soon.” She looks around the room. Trusted eyes meet her everywhere, and she cannot help but smile. Like this, together, they could still succeed. 

“Everyone get some rest. A proper night’s sleep will do all of us some good. There is much to be done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely not done with the upcoming final arc, but wanted to put this up and tie up the Daphnel arc just to quell any doubts that I'm alive and still working on this. Had a few issues with technical difficulties, mental health, and wrist pain flare-ups that impeded me for a bit.
> 
> Cheers, loves.


End file.
